


Past Forgotten, Past Remembered

by Mordaunt



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:25:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 27,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mordaunt/pseuds/Mordaunt
Summary: How did Athos and Milady meet? Who were they before we encounter them in the BBC series?The story follows the episodes in Season 2 of The BBC Musketeers series (in order), providing a possible backstory. The story is consistent with the backstories of characters in “Between the Lines.”I do not own any of the BBC characters and I am deeply indebted both to Alexandre Dumas and to Gatien de Courtilz de Sandras for inspiration.





	1. Part I: Duty and Honor

**PART I: Duty and Honor**

 

 _Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee,_  
_Before I knew thy face or name;_  
_So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame  
_ _Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be;_

 

_(John Donne 1572-1631, Air and Angels)_


	2. The Hanged Man

_French-Spanish border, March 5, 1631_

 

The man’s hands are tied with a rope and his head covered with an old sack, another rope around his neck ready to be used for the hanging.

 

“Release him immediately,” Athos demands. In the sight of Musketeer pistols aiming at them the villagers lower their forks and sticks, subdued. Their leader spits on the ground in contempt. “You are welcome to him,” he says removing the sack. “He is a cold-blooded killer.”

 

The prisoner is disheveled, in tattered clothes, his long matted fair hair almost masks his pale bruised face. Athos recognizes him immediately.

 

Charles…


	3. The Oath

_Paris, April 19, 1612*(morning)_

 

He is stirred in his sleep by unfamiliar sounds. The creaking of carriage wheels, horses neighing, impatiently hitting their hooves against a stone pavement, and a multitude of jumbled, disjointed voices. For the few seconds he lingers between sleep and waking, he is panicked. Where is he? He is used to the chirping of birds, his father’s hounds barking in the distance, the quiet movements of the servants through the household as they begin their morning chores.

 

What place is this?

 

His eyes adjust to the timid light that peeks through the thick folds of the velvet curtains. Its reflection forms neat symmetrical waves along the dark wooden beams of the ceiling. It is an elegant room, austere, and unfamiliar. It all returns to him now. The room looked different the night before. Dark. Ominous even. He would never admit it to his father but he would rather not have to sleep alone in this room. In this city. He misses his hound, Dido. If only she could have been here, curled at the feet of his bed.

 

First time away from home.

 

“Monsieur, you are fourteen. It is time to prove yourself. You are no longer a child. And there is no better time and opportunity for you than this.” His father’s somber voice clashed with the tenderness in his eyes as he spoke. His mother lifted her head from her sewing for a moment. She looked as if she was about to weep. From the other side of the room Thomas, wide-eyed, gazed at him in awe. He felt taller somehow. And sad. As if he had suddenly lost something valuable.

 

Early the next morning, he bid everyone farewell, and rode off to Paris dressed in his new traveling clothes, alongside his father and Rémy (1), the son of his father’s steward. Thomas wept. “Travel safely, Olivier (2), heed your father, and wear your cloak,” his mother said as if this was just a regular outing. Yet, her voice trembled slightly. He noticed she held him a little longer than usual. A wave of sorrow overcame him as he buried his head in her embrace. He knew this was the end of something he could never reclaim. He held on to her a little longer too, breathing in her scent of honey and lavender. He wanted to make sure he would never forget her scent and the warmth of her embrace.

 

He knew not what waited for him in Paris, but whatever it was it must be important. His father had made sure he had four new outfits made especially for this visit. But more significantly, his father carried the Hauteclere (3), the family sword. It was the sword given to his ancestor after whom he is named Olivier Athos, by the great king Francis I at the Battle of Marignano (4). The Hauteclere has been proudly carried by generations of Montmorency and de la Fére men (5). Olivier knows all their names, the family histories, the heraldry, and the battles they fought and won.

 

He was not permitted to handle this sword. It hangs on the wall of his father’s study. Grimaud (6), his father’s valet, claims that the Hauteclere has a soul, that its ornate hilt burns the hand of anyone who attempts to hold it except for the hand of him who is meant to wield it. Olivier was doubtful. He had read Aristotle with Monsieur Bardin (7), his tutor. Inanimate objects have no soul. Monsieur Bardin called such beliefs “superstitions” and “logical fallacies.” Once, when their father was out hunting, he and Thomas stole into the study. It was Thomas’ idea. “Quickly, Olivier!” Thomas urged him on, “hold the hilt!”  Olivier balanced carefully on his father’s chair. His mind assured him that no harm would come to him, except if they were caught. Still, his heart was beating so loudly he could hear it. The hilt felt pleasantly cold in his hand. “Of course, nothing happened to you,” Thomas reasoned, disappointed, “you are the one meant to own it.”

 

Lying in his bed, in this unfamiliar room, in this strange city, Olivier wonders if he may now be allowed to wield the forbidden blade. A soft knock on the door announces Rémy. He is the same age as Olivier but too tall for his age and a little awkward. Olivier calls him the Gentle Giant. They grew up together. Rémy walks in with fresh water in a large copper basin and clean linen towels. A red cheeked young maid follows behind him with a breakfast tray. She leaves it on a table, curtsies, and exits silently. “Good morning, Monsieur,” Rémy says. “Your father gave word to get you ready for this afternoon.” Olivier notices that his best outfit is already laid out for him. He does not know why but he feels a knot in his throat. He wants to know what is in store for him.

 

He wants to be back in his own room at home…

He misses Thomas… 

He is definitely not hungry…

 

Mounted on their horses and followed by Rémy, Olivier and his father cross the Pont Neuf, along Aubrevoir Pépin street. They pass by the walls of the Grand Châtelet and enter the Rue St. Denis. Olivier has studied maps of the city but he never thought it would be this large, nor this crowded. He feels elated, as if its colors, sounds, and smells permeate his entire being. It is stranger than he imagined and it fascinates him. He has never felt this way before. Is this what it means to no longer be a child?

 

“Careful, Olivier!” His father casts a careful look on his horse. “You hold your reins too tightly. Look how your horse is already tired and foaming whereas mine looks as fresh as if just out of the stables.” Olivier blushes to the whites of his eyes. How could he have ever made such as novice mistake? He eases his grip on the reins. “Thank you, Monsieur for your kind advice,” he whispers embarrassed. His father smiles attempting to alleviate the severity of his admonishment. “Such a fresh breeze. It has quite the touch of winter although it is almost Easter,” he observes.

 

“Monsieur,” Olivier ventures, “may I inquire where we are going?”

 

“We are expected at the Louvre this afternoon,” his father responds quietly. “But before that, there is another place we must visit. Ah, here we are, we have reached St. Denis.”

 

“We are visiting the church,” Olivier’s father tells the sentinels at the town gate.

 

They dismount in front of the church, leaving Rémy with the horses. His father offers Olivier the holy water, crossing himself, and whispers something to a verger. An early mass is being said before Easter so the church is not empty. “Follow me, Messieurs,” says the verger quietly leading them towards a crypt. Olivier’s eyes slowly adjust to the darkness as he descends the steps, following his father, towards a vaulted underground chamber lit by a single silver lamp. He knows now where they are. These are the royal tombs. Father and son both stand before a marble catafalque supported by carved horses, enveloped in a large velvet mantle with embroidered golden fleurs de lis; the remains of the great Henry IV, whose life had ended violently but a mere two years since. (8)

 

“This is the sepulcher of a man who was a great King,” his father’s voice resonates in the silence of the crypt. “We know not what the King who succeeds him will be, for he is still a child. We may hope he proves himself as great as his father. He may not. There are two things enclosed in the Louvre, Olivier. A king who dies, and the royalty which does not.  Learn to distinguish one from the other. The King is but a man. Royalty is the spirit of God. When you find yourself in doubt as to which of the two you should serve, forsake the man for the principle. For the principle is God’s power and God’s power is infallible. Love, honor, and serve your King. If he proves a tyrant, love, honor, and serve royalty. Remember it is France and God you serve.” (9)

 

Olivier kneels. “I shall worship God, Monsieur. I shall honor royalty. I shall serve my King. I shall endeavor to do my duty to France following your example and the examples of all those who bore our name honorably. Have I understood you?”

 

“You are a noble and loyal young man,” his father smiles proudly handing him the Hauteclere. “This is your sword now. My father wore it and his father before him. All were men of honor. All were men of duty. All served God and France. If your arm is still too weak to wield it, so much the better. You will have more time to learn how to draw it only when duty demands that you do.”

 

“Monsieur,” says Olivier, receiving the ancient sword, “I owe you everything. But this is the most precious gift you have given me. I shall wear it with pride.” He lifts the sword and kisses the hilt with reverence.

 

“Rise, Olivier Athos, Comte de la Fére,” his father says quietly, “rise and let us embrace.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In 1612, Easter Sunday was on April 22.
> 
> (1) Rémy: Character in the BBC Musketeer series. Appears in S1: “Commodities.” He was present at Milady’s execution and appears to have been a servant close to Athos from his youth. The backstory for the character developed for this story is not in the BBC series.   
> (2) Olivier: In his play “La jeuneusse des mousquetaires” (1849), A. Dumas uses “Olivier” as Athos’ original name.   
> (3) Hauteclere (or Halteclere, or Hauteclaire, literally "High and neat") is the sword of Olivier, a character in the medieval French epic The Song of Roland (La Chanson de Roland.) It is described as being of burnished steel, with a crystal embedded in a golden hilt. It was not unusual for swords to be named since medieval times. These names were often inspired by legendary swords such as the one in the Song of Roland. Therefore, to name the family sword “Hauteclere” would not be unusual. Given the coincidence of names (Olivier/Olivier), I thought it would be an interesting option.   
> (4) Battle of Marignano: Fought in Sept 13-14, 1515, near Milan, Italy. Part of the “War of the League of Cambrai” between France and the Old Swiss Confederacy. The French King was Francis I. In “The Three Musketeers” but also in “Twenty Years After” and “Louise La Valliere,” Dumas hints that one of Athos’ ancestors fought with Francis I and was honored with a sword, which Athos has brought with him from his older life. The biography of the sword developed for this story is based on the various hints in Dumas combined with historical facts.   
> (5) Montmorency and de la Fére: In “Twenty Years After” Porthos connects Athos both to the Montmorency and the Rohan families. The story here builds on this fictional genealogy from Dumas.   
> (6) Grimaud: the character in this story is based on Dumas, and not on the BBC series (s3.)  
> (7) Monsieur Bardin: fictional character, inspired by Pierre Bardin (1590 – 29 May 1635,) French philosopher, mathematician and one of the first members of the French academy. The idea is that Athos was raised with a thorough education, including academics, which would be rather unusual for gentlemen of the period.   
> (8) Royal crypt: Basilique royale de Saint-Denis, or simply Basilique Saint-Denis is a large medieval abbey church in the city of St. Denis, a suburb of Paris. The basilica was a place of pilgrimage and the burial place of French Kings from the 10th to the 18th c. The King’s grave that Athos and his father visit is Henry IV (father of Louis XIII) who was assassinated in 1610. The scene here is similar to a scene in Dumas’ “Twenty Years After,” between Athos and his son Raoul. It is consistent with the character of Athos. It makes sense that Athos repeats a rite of passage/oath he experienced in his youth with his own father.   
> (9) Oath: The oath and the sequence of the ritual are similar to those described by Dumas in “Twenty Years After.” In that case it is between Raoul Bragelonne with his father Athos.


	4. In the Company of Strangers and Relatives

_Paris, April 20, 1612 (afternoon)_

 

“Monsieur, approach” his father invites him with a wave of hand. He has been conversing for a while with another gentleman, standing in the fragrant shade of a rose pavilion in the Louvre gardens. The gentleman is younger than his father, tall, with strong, handsome features, and holds a feathered hat. Olivier has no doubt as to his occupation. It is marked on the leather pauldron decorating his right arm. A Musketeer. Who has not heard of their exploits and courage? Olivier remembers all the times he and Thomas pretended to be Musketeers defending France against the Protestants in the arboretum behind the old church of Pinon. 

 

Olivier removes his hat and approaches, bowing politely. “This is my dearest friend, Monsieur de Treville, soon to be Captain of the King’s Musketeers,” says his father. Olivier has heard this name before. In fact, he has heard it all his life. Monsieur de Treville is his godfather. “Monsieur, it is an honor to finally meet you,” he says.

 

“The pleasure and honor are mine, Monsieur le Comte.” The Musketeer smiles a warm, congenial smile, and turning again to Olivier’s father he observes, “my dear Marquis (1), your description failed to convey the exceptional young cavalier I see before me. Young man, I hear you have a strong arm and a special talent for the sword.”

 

Olivier hopes he is not blushing as he responds quietly, his hand reaching for the hilt of the Hauteclere as if to draw courage, “I am but an amateur Monsieur, compared to your renown and acclaim.” He wonders, if his father considers a Musketeer career for him. That is of course unlikely, but Olivier would have welcomed such a prospect.

 

“Perhaps, if your father permits and your duties allow, we may practice together while you are in Paris,” says Monsieur de Treville. What duties? Olivier is certain he is being prepared for something important.

 

It does not take long to discover what it is…

 

The Queen, dressed in black still even after two years of widowhood (2), bows her head slightly. She smiles a satisfied smile. “Marquis,” she says, addressing Olivier’s father, “We congratulate you for the noble cavalier you brought to Our Court. The young Comte will make a perfect companion to His Majesty. The King’s gentlemen should be the best in France…” 

 

Olivier realizes his life has changed forever. He is led to his new apartments; all his belongings already arranged by Rémy, who is now his valet. Farewells with his father are brief. “Take care, Olivier,” says his father, “remember to uphold your oath and honor your name.”

 

Alone in his new Louvre apartments, Olivier sits carefully at the edge of his new bed, as if it is not his; as if he is afraid to disturb it. The room is lavishly decorated. Cold. Uncomfortable. A scratching at the door moves him to his feet. “Enter!” He tries to sound assertive.

 

The young man at the door is a complete stranger. He is older. Perhaps eighteen or nineteen. Handsome. That is the first word that comes to Olivier’s mind. He resembles paintings of Apollo. Tall, statuesque, with a Grecian profile, and blond curls framing a pair of blue intelligent eyes. The edges of his lips are slightly curved. Is it disdain, Olivier wonders? But the young man’s deep voice is pleasant and affable.

 

“Welcome to the Louvre, Monsieur le Comte!” He dashes forward extending his hand warmly. “It must feel strange to suddenly find yourself one of the King’s gentlemen!” he remarks.

 

Olivier is taken aback by the forward manner of this complete stranger. “Monsieur, I do not believe I have the honor of your acquaintance,” he replies, “although you seem to know me.”

 

The young man laughs softly and his blue eyes glimmer playfully. “Oh, you will get used to our familiar manners, my dear Monsieur. I am the Comte de Rochefort. Charles César de Rochefort.”(3) He completes his introduction with a deep elaborate bow. Is he mocking me, Olivier asks himself, and at the same time he tries to remember where he has heard that name before.

 

“Oh, for goodness sake!” exclaims the young man, laughing heartily, shaking his hand. “Do not look so confused, damn you! Try to be less of a provincial! And call me Charles. We are, after all, cousins!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Marquis: The specifics of Athos’ family history are all developed for this story. In “La jeuneusse des mousquetaires” (1849), A. Dumas gives young Athos the title of Vicomte. I opted for a higher rank for the family because of the storyline developed here.  
> (2) Queen: Marie de Medici (26 April 1575 – 3 July 1642), second wife of King Henry IV and mother of King Louis XIII. In 1612 Louis is still in his minority. Marie de Medici remained Regent until 1617. The story here follows the historical events related to this transition of power.  
> (3) Charles-César de Rochefort: In Gatien Courtilz de Sandras’ "The Memoires of the Count de Rochefort, containing an account of what past most memorable, under the Ministry of Cardinal Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin, with many particular passages of the reign of Lewis the Great,” the author and protagonist of these memoirs is called Charles-César de Rochefort. The genealogy for Rochefort here is original and developed for the purposes of this story.


	5. An Education

_July 19, 1612_

 

> _“Beloved Father and Mother,_
> 
> _I hope you are well and content. I send you my warmest greetings. I am settled now in my new position thanks to the wise counsel and guidance of M. de Treville and the friendly support of M. de Rochefort, our cousin through M. Rohan, the prince de_ _Guéméné, his uncle and ours, as you well know…”_ (1)

He stops, considering what to write next. 

 

At first, he wrote every day although he kept most of those early letters, opting to send just one letter every week. How often do gentlemen write to their parents and their brother? He has settled for a monthly letter now. Still, he wants to tell them about so many wondrous things! The young King’s (2) elaborate routines, his childlike tantrums that send the entire court into chaos, and how vast the royal stables are. He wants to tell Thomas about flowers that swallow insects and caged birds with feathers the colors of the rainbow. About the giraffe and the elephant in the royal menagerie. About snake enchanters with cobras that can dance to the music of flutes. Are these childish things to write about? Charles does not seem to care much about such wonders, let alone write letters to his parents. Or does he? Olivier dares not ask. Charles says appearances are everything at court and Olivier knows he still appears provincial. He certainly feels that way compared to Charles who was raised at court, his father a gentleman of the Great King Henry.

 

Perhaps he should write about the fencing sessions with M. de Treville. Yes, that seems to be more appropriate for a gentleman to write about, he decides. In the past three months these lessons have become the most anticipated part of his day. Sometimes he practices with the Hauteclere although it is too fine a sword to use for practice. M. de Treville offers no praises but Olivier can see it in his eyes that he considers his godson a worthy opponent. “Just do not let your heart rule your head, my friend,” the Musketeer observes often, “if you achieve that, then you may one day make the best swordsman in France.” Olivier is certain his godfather exaggerates. Nevertheless, he aspires to that title. M. de Treville is still not made Captain and although he never speaks of it, Olivier knows it troubles him. But the Queen Mother has other plans. (3) That is what Charles thinks. And Charles understands the subtleties of court politics better than anyone, even M. de Treville. “She is enamored of that Italian Concini,” Charles declares with disdain, “of him and his wife.” (4) Olivier still finds his friend’s manner perplexing. How he manages to be direct and evasive at the same time. It is a language that Olivier has yet to master.

 

A scratching sound on his door intimates the friendly presence. “Enter,” Olivier says, folding the unfinished letter into a wooden box with the family crest carved on its lid. A gift sent by his mother.

 

Charles fills a glass with red wine and throws himself on a chair. Olivier has learned that wine is always needed in a young gentleman’s apartments if he wants to be popular at court. He still cannot stomach it but he pretends he enjoys it as much as his peers.

 

“The brat threw another tantrum,” Charles sighs loudly as he swallows the entire contents of his glass. “I was tempted to slap him. Someone should.”

 

“What was his ailment this time,” Olivier asks with a smile. The King suffers from all sorts of ailments, most of them imagined.

 

“He is to be married.”

 

“So, they finally decided on a bride?”

 

“Yes, indeed. Spanish. His age…”(5)

 

Olivier wonders what this would be like. The King is just eleven years old, a year younger than Thomas. He tries to remember what it was like to be eleven… Dido was a puppy then.

 

“They are sending me to Spain,” Charles’ voice is serious now.

 

“Charles…why? When?” Olivier hopes he does not sound as upset as he feels. Charles has been his only friend in this place besides M. de Treville.

 

“Oh, not right away. But they are. My grandmother is Spanish…” This is the first time Charles has spoken about his family, although Olivier is aware of that particular detail. “They want me to be the Infanta’s tutor. Teach her how to be…French!” He pours himself a second glass of wine. “Just my luck. Exchange one royal brat for another. And a Spanish one for that matter. Well, cousin, I say, let us avail ourselves of the little time we have together before this damned court turns into a Spanish nursery! What say you? Shall we go?” Charles stands as if ready to depart. 

 

“Where to?”

 

“Paris, cousin! Out there! Where else? I plan to teach you everything you need to know, before I turn into a royal governess!”

 

Life moves faster after that evening. Somehow, Olivier is busier and less focused. “What is the matter with you, young man?” observes M. Treville during their daily practice the next day, “where is your mind?” Daily fencing sessions turn into weekly ones. He is not sure he needs them really. He now trains his arm with old rusty blades in taverns and back alleys. And one summer night after a card game, he and Charles fight off six men with nothing but blunt table knives. Charles gets a flesh wound on his shoulder, and Olivier gets a deep scar on his upper lip. “Oh, my friend,” Charles exclaims in a fit of drunken laughter, “pray your wound never heals. Pray it leaves a scar. Women will love you all the more…” Intoxication passes quickly but the scar remains. M. de Treville notices it but says nothing. Still, Olivier can see that his godfather is disappointed. He suddenly recalls the unfinished letter in his mother’s box. He promises to send it the very next morning…

 

…Charles is desponded. He throws himself on Olivier’s bed, his hands covering his face. “I am to leave in two days,” he bemoans. “This is it, cousin. The end of my life… I turn from gentleman of the French court to Spanish nanny…”

 

“Then we must celebrate as only Frenchmen can,” says Olivier quietly.

 

Neither of them has any real plans. Cards and drinking at the usual places. Kissing a wench or two perhaps. It is a warm summer night and the Seine adds to the humidity and stench. “Perhaps Madrid is less stuffy…” Olivier attempts to raise his cousin’s spirits, in vain.

 

“Messieurs! Honorable Gentlemen! Do you dare tempt your fortune?” cries a voice behind them; a long haired, dark skinned man, with coal black eyes of unusual brightness and a large smile. He wears earrings and a gold chain around his neck. He looks like every drawing of a pirate Olivier has ever seen. Something about the glimmer in the man’s eyes makes Olivier’s skin crawl. “Let us move on Charles,” he suggests.

 

“Tempt our fortune? How?” Charles sounds intrigued. 

 

The man leads them to a house. It looks respectable enough. Windows are open and Olivier can hear music and people talking and laughing.

 

“Whose house is this?” Olivier is bemused. How can one be invited to someone’s home in this manner?

 

“Madame Solange,” says the man.

 

“Madame, who…?” Olivier ventures but Charles hushes him.

 

“Cousin,” he whispers, “I fear I failed miserably in your education. Madame Solange’s house is notorious. The best and most tantalizing entertainment in Paris, my friend…”

 

Olivier still does not fully comprehend although he suspects. The house is lavishly furnished and crowded. It is full of men the age of M. de Treville and his father. Some even older. The two of them are the youngest in this crowd. A young woman in a revealing outfit sings at the harpsichord. She has a beautiful deep voice, surprisingly cultivated for someone in a place like this. Others walk around serving wine, laughing, touching…

 

“Honorable Guests!” the dark eyed man’s voice silences the crowded room. “I give you the Notorious Madame Solange!” The woman who walks in amidst the applause is unlike any woman Olivier has ever seen. He can determine neither her age nor her features. Her face is painted like a mask. She wears a red gown that reminds him of costumes for the opera, opulent, colorful, and theatrical. She holds a large black fan in her bejeweled hand. 

 

“Tonight, dear friends, we have a special treat for you! Fresh, untouched, pure maidens. Their maidenheads for the taking!”

 

A screen opens behind her to reveal four young women, dressed in white tunics, like nymphs one sees in paintings. Only the fabrics of their costumes are transparent and leave very little to the imagination. One girl steps forward. She looks like a child. She stands with a smile on her face. Her eyes tell another story. She is terrified.

 

“This lovely creature is Suzette! (6) I take your bids gentlemen! Nothing less than five sous for this rare wild flower!”

 

“Five sous for this scrawny thing?” yells a drunken voice, followed by others booing and laughing. “She needs to be fed too!”

 

Olivier sees nothing but the girl’s face. The smile frozen on her lips. Her eyes begging for something. To be bought? To be freed? He looks around but Charles is nowhere to be found. He is probably in some other room drinking. The air becomes thicker suddenly. Too many bodies. Too many perfumes. Olivier cannot breathe. He feels as if he is about to heave… Pushing desperately through the excited crowd of bidding men he finds the exit.  He collapses at the foot of a staircase, panting. His head is spinning and his eyes grow dim…

 

“Are you feeling unwell, Monsieur?”

 

A girl’s voice. She is standing at the top of the stairs. He can see her through the haze of the candlelight and the mist that clouds his mind. He hears her voice as if in a dream. “Yes,” he stammers although he is not sure any words come out of his mouth. She descends one more step, and into the light of the candles. Olivier is no longer certain he is not dreaming. He is not certain of anything but his heart that is about to break through his chest, and an eerie feeling of familiarity. Has he been in this place before? Has he met this girl before? He is certain he has, although it is impossible. There is something else about her that takes his breath away…

 

Charles must have carried him back because he remembers nothing else about that night. He wakes up two days later, with M. de Treville’s physician at his side. “You have been taken ill, Monsieur. A fever. But you should have a speedy recovery now.”

 

Rémy hands him a note from Charles: 

> _“Beloved Cousin,_
> 
> _I am off to become a Spanish Governess!_
> 
> _Be strong and well!_
> 
> _Charles César_
> 
> _PS: Try to be less provincial, old man!”_

 

In the quiet solitude of his room, as he lies in his bed, Olivier remembers the unfinished letter to his parents. He closes his eyes. He can see nothing but the shape of a girl. A girl standing at the top of a half-lit staircase. A girl with green eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) “our cousin through the prince de Guéméné, M. Rohan, his uncle and ours”: The genealogy for Athos in this story is fictional as is that of Rochefort. However, Athos’ family history is consistent with information provided at different Dumas books (“The Three Musketeers”, “Twenty Years After”, and “Louise La Valliere”.) I decided to connect him to the Montmorency line through his father and the Rohan through his mother given actual genealogical information for both families. The Rohan line of course connects him to Madame de Chevreuse who appears later in this story and is a significant character in Dumas’ novels.   
> (2) “young King”: Louis XIII who is eleven years old at this point of the story.   
> (3) “But the Queen Mother has other plans”: de Treville’s story here is based on the BBC series, not on his historical counterpart.   
> (4) “the Italian Concini and his wife”: Concino Concini, 1er Marquis d’ Ancre (1575-April 24, 1617) was an Italian politician, minister of Louis XIII, and favorite of Marie de Medici. He married Leonora Dori Galigaï (1571- July, 8, 1617) a lady in waiting to Marie de Medici, and her favorite at court. The influence of both on the Queen Mother was seen as dangerous. Eventually, in a coup against the Queen Mother orchestrated by Louis XIII and his favorite Charles d’ Albert, Duke of Luynes, Concini was assassinated on the bridge of the Louvre and his wife was executed for witchcraft.   
> (5) “bride, Spanish, his age”: Anne of Austria. She was born in 1601. She was betrothed to Louis at the age of eleven (1612) and married him by proxy in 1615.   
> (6) Suzette: character from the BBC series, season 1, ep. 2. “Sleight of Hand.”


	6. Change of Fortune

_Paris, October 5, 1617_

 

It has been two years now since Charles returned from Spain. He returned a different man. He has lost the playful glimmer in his eye, his nonchalance, the ease of his manner. His voice is deliberate now; his words calculated and few. The corners of his lips are always curved in disdain. Now Charles basks in the company of d’ Albert, the king’s falconer and the new royal favorite. (1)

 

Charles returned with the new Spanish Queen. She is not exactly what the court expected, nor the King. Lively, intelligent, affectionate, and pretty. The King abhors being outshined. The new Queen soon realized the implications of her natural gifts. The King prefers hunting to her presence and her bedchamber. D’Albert attempted to persuade Louis to approach his young Queen and the Queen to make herself less distant. In return, she agreed to replace her Spanish ladies with French ones, led by d’ Albert’s own new wife, Marie de Rohan, Charles’ first cousin, whose beauty is as undeniable as is her love of intrigue and her recklessness. Queen Anne and Marie are now the best of friends. (2)

 

Olivier rarely sees Charles now. Perhaps it is for the best. He remembers the giddy last few months before Charles left for Spain with uneasiness and a sense of shame. Perhaps it is even justified, he thinks, that Charles keeps his distance, after what has transpired. He is surprised he remains a gentleman of the King’s court after all that. He knows it is only his talent with the sword and the King’s perverse tendency to annoy his mother that keeps him here.

 

For almost two years now, nobles have been revolting against the Queen Mother and Concini, under the banner of the Prince of Condé. (3) Olivier’s father was among them. As was M. de Treville. Although the Prince walked out of the rebellions relatively unscathed, neither Olivier’s father nor his godfather shared the same fortune. M. de Treville was imprisoned first and remains exiled from Paris. Olivier’s father was stripped of the title of Marquis and the lands his title conferred. It was unfathomable. His was an ancient line. But he was told it was a better option than losing his head alongside that of his younger son, Thomas, who accompanied him in his rebellious ventures. Olivier’s father was made an example of what it means to defy one’s King, although in this case, it was really the Queen Mother and her allies. It was all a show of power against insubordinate nobles. A brilliant political move Olivier was told, machinated by a new man in the circle of the Queen Mother, a certain Armand du Plessis. (4)

 

True to his creed to support royalty rather than one’s unjust monarch, Olivier’s father found himself simply the Comte de la Fére, owner of the small estate around Pinon that was to be Olivier’s while his father was still alive. The family had to adjust to a simpler life. Olivier’s mother writes often about how it pleases her to run her own household instead of relying on an army of servants and maids. Olivier finds it odd. His mother comes from an ancient family and was once a lady in waiting to the Queen Mother. (5) But he understands her subtlety. For himself, Olivier does not care much about servants. They make him uncomfortable. Although gentlemen of the court should maintain their own valets, he sent Rémy back to La Fére. His father needs him more, and Olivier’s income is no longer what it used to be.

 

His mother speaks of their neighbors, the de Renards. She calls them “new people.” It is not so much derision, as it is coming to terms with the new world in which she now finds herself. She also speaks of the de Garouvilles. Olivier knows them well. The Baron has been a close friend of his father’s and one of his vassals in the Pinon district. “I am grateful,” his mother writes, “for the company and support of dearest Catherine, without whose practical mind and skillful interventions I would have been lost.” Catherine is M. de Garouville’s daughter. She is a soft spoken, pale girl. She used to play the harp and sing. Catherine occupies much of his mother’s letters and her thoughts it seems. His mother does not write it explicitly but Olivier understands well that Catherine is meant to become his wife. It makes sense. He is almost twenty now. His tenure at court is increasingly tentative, his father is getting older, and La Fére has become the only source of income for the family.

 

With M. de Treville exiled from Paris, and Charles too important to condescend his company, Olivier leads a solitary life. He still hunts with the King and is his fencing tutor, although no amount of tutoring will help this young monarch wield the sword to ever protect himself. He spends time outside court, at taverns and brothels, among Musketeers and soldiers, with whom he feels much more affinity than the perfumed gentlemen of the court.

 

He has not stopped looking for her. The girl with the green eyes. He dreams of her often, her form now almost transparent, hazy, undefined. Perhaps she never existed…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) D’Albert: Charles d’ Albert; later: Duc de Luynes (Aug. 5, 1578-Dec. 15, 1621) was a courtier and favorite of Louis XIII. He died of a fever at the height of his influence and this led to the rise of Armand Jean du Plessis who became Cardinal Richelieu and First Minister of France.  
> (2) Marie de Rohan: (Dec. 1600- Aug. 12, 1679.) Mademoiselle de Montbazon, daughter of Hercule de Rohan, Duc de Montbazon. She married Charles d’ Albert, Duc de Luynes who died in 1621. Also known as Madame de Chevreuse from her second marriage to Claude de Lorraine, Duc de Chevreuse. She was a courtier and political activist at the center of many intrigues in the French court. She was a favorite of Anne of Austria. Her influence on the young Queen was often seen as dangerous especially by Anne’s political rivals, especially Richelieu. Marie was a political rival of Richelieu, who exiled her from court. Although she is a very significant character in Dumas’ “The Three Musketeers,” she never really appears directly in the first novel of the saga. In the “Three Musketeers” she is Aramis’ mistress. Under the aliases “Marie Michon” or “the Queen’s seamstress,” she intervenes “off stage” at crucial points of the story to help the Musketeers against the Cardinal and Milady de Winter. She is however an actual character in the later novels. In “Twenty Years After” we learn that while fleeing her exile accompanied by Kitty, Milady’s servant, whom she had employed, she spent one night with Athos thinking he was a lonely country curate. The result of that night was Raoul Bragelonne, Athos’ son. She becomes a close ally of Athos (and Aramis) during the Fronde against Cardinal Mazarin and Anne (now Regent,) and later is at the center of the intrigue involving King Louis XIV’s twin brother in “Man in the Iron Mask.”  
> (3) Prince of Condé: Henri de Bourbon (Sept. 1, 1588- Dec. 26, 1646)  
> (4) Armand du Plessis: Armand Jean du Plessis (Sept. 9 1585- Dec. 4, 1642). Since 1622 he was known as Cardinal Richelieu.  
> (5) “his mother was once a lady in waiting of the Queen Mother”: In “The Three Musketeers” and “Twenty Years After” Dumas implies that Athos’ mother was a lady in waiting to Queen Marie de Medici.


	7. Exile

_Paris, May 12, 1618_

Nobody expected such decisive action from Louis nor such planning. Turns out it was all d’ Albert’s idea. Concini murdered in the street. His wife executed for witchcraft. The Queen Mother deposed and exiled. Louis finally the absolute monarch. Louis and d’ Albert, now the Duc de Luynes; Anne and Marie de Rohan, his wife. The perfect harmony. 

 

Except for the return of M. de Treville, now finally, as Captain of the Musketeers, Olivier finds this new order more uncomfortable than the previous disorder. At least then he was invisible. Now for reasons he cannot penetrate he seems to be observed and by those closest to the crown.

 

“Will you let me play with your sword, Monsieur le Comte?” The duchess de Luynes smiles an inscrutable smile, her large blue eyes glimmering suggestively. She stands far too close to him than is appropriate for a married woman in public and in the presence of her Queen.

 

“It is an ancient sword, Madame. Difficult to wield, let alone play with.” He attempts not to look into her eyes, nor reciprocate her tone of voice. He would rather be thought of dull and dim than lewd.

 

“Oh, I am sure I can handle such an ancient tool, Monsieur,” she insists, her long fingers touching the hilt of the Hauteclere, while the Queen and her ladies burst into soft giggles.

 

“Forgive my dear friend, Monsieur le Comte,” the Queen approaches them, careful however to maintain her distance from the pair. “The duchess is of an adventurous disposition, and my ladies are convinced you are also.” Her comment is followed by more giddiness on the part of her ladies.

 

He should have blushed. But he does not. He only smiles and bows deeply. “Your Majesty, I am but your humble servant.”

 

As expected, the incident made it into the daily court gossip. Charles said nothing at all. He just bowed his head when Olivier passed him by and smiled that arrogant smile full of disdain he now carried with him everywhere.

 

It was M. de Treville who had something to say.

 

He had been waiting for Olivier after morning mass, in a covered passage connecting the royal chapel to the palace. “Be careful, Olivier my friend!” he whispered. “Be careful to whom you talk. The walls have ears now. Remember that your family needs all the protection they can get, even now; especially now.”

 

“I understand, Monsieur.”

 

“I do not think you do, my boy. Rochefort, your cousin, is not your friend. He is no one’s friend. Do you think he is a friend of de Lyunes or his wife? Rochefort knows where power resides and when to move on…”

 

“And what does that have to do with me, Monsieur? I have no power. I have nothing Charles can possibly desire.”

 

“Here is where you are wrong. You underestimate yourself again, as you did when you let yourself be lured by him. Oh, I know everything about that. You have been noticed by the Queen. She talks about you often with the duchess, her friend. Do you realize what this means to your cousin? To be deposed by you in the Queen’s good graces? He possesses none of your talents nor your grace. If you replace him it will be forever.”

 

“Monsieur, you exaggerate…”

 

“Do I? I honestly hope so. For your sake. For your family’s sake. And one more thing. Armand du Plessis…”

 

“He is banished to Avignon, Monsieur.”

 

“Yes, and I hope he remains there writing treatises. But I doubt it. Remember how he treated your father? Why your father of all people, have you ever wondered? Now that is a very ambitious man, Olivier. As ambitious as your cousin. And you know what else they have in common? Du Plessis is your cousin’s godfather. My sources tell me, they have always been very close.”

 

Olivier has little time to experience the full extent of betrayal intimated by these revelations. A royal guard approaches them with a bow. “Monsieur le Comte de la Fére, the King demands your presence immediately.”

 

It is a brief audience. The entire court is gathered. The Queen, the Duc de Luynes and his wife, Charles, even M. de Treville and his Musketeers lined at the back of the great hall.

 

“Monsieur,” the King lisps slightly but his words are clear. “You have served Us well all these years and We will reciprocate by assigning you to accompany Our new ambassador to England. You are to remain there indefinitely.”

 

“Indefinitely” is not an honor. “Indefinitely” is punishment.

 

“Did you do this, Charles?” It is the first time he speaks to his cousin in many years. “Did you do this?”

 

Rochefort shrugs, his eyes avoiding to look at Olivier, “No. I would say, you did.”

 

“Why, Charles?”

 

“Because I could. Because it felt good.”


	8. Beloved Cousin

_French-Spanish Border, March 5, 1631_

 

Athos dismounts from d’ Artagnan’s horse. They have been riding together for a while in pursuit of Rochefort who managed to escape his executioners and the Musketeers on Athos’ horse.

 

Rochefort dismounts as well. There is no place to run. He is surrounded by Musketeers. He drops the pistol he stole and raises his hands.

 

Athos approaches him carefully pistol in hand. He can see that old familiar smile, the one that was always full of disdain. But the eyes are different. No longer playful, no longer arrogant. There is something else now in Charles’ eyes. Athos has encountered it often in his new life. The desire to kill.

 

To the surprise of his comrades he places his pistol back into his belt and walks even closer, almost a breath away from the man he once thought a friend. The blow is swift and catches Rochefort completely unawares.  He falls to the ground, gasping for air.

 

“Why did you do that for?” he moans, holding his bruised face.

 

“Because I could. Because it felt good.”


	9. Part II: Deception

**Part II: Deception**

_I have a daughter, golden_  
_Beautiful like a flower_  
_Kleis, my love-_  
_And I would not exchange her for  
_ _All the riches of Lydia…_

_(SAPPHO, Fragment 32, Translated by A. S. Kline)_

 

 

> _Paris, May 12, 1618_
> 
> _I write this in haste before the old fool wakes up. I want to remember it because I will forget. I forget my sins. Mother says we girls should not linger on such silly notions. It is a waste of time and it makes your eyes puffy and your skin pale. Gentlemen do not like puffy eyed, tearful, girls._
> 
> _Of course, she is not my mother although I have always called her that. My mother was different but perhaps I just deceive myself about it. I am no longer certain. All I remember of my mother are her screams. “Run Alessandra!” Then there was the trampling of soldier boots, and my father hanging from a roof-beam, lifeless. He looked tall, hanging in the air like a puppet. They wore crosses, those soldiers, and others had uniforms with the royal fleur-de-lis. There were priests and monks in the streets burning the devil out of us:  that wet, cold day when the Catholics entered Uzés (1) and we were sinners. I have forgotten that day and all the days before that. Our many journeys. Our early days at the house by the sea._
> 
> _My life began when Mother found me in a rotting tent, in a military camp, among whimpering girls huddled together like lost animals. She smelled of rosewater and looked like a queen: red dress, laced cuffs, and powdered face. Do queens wear so much powder? She touched my cheek and said: “you have emeralds for eyes, dearest. How old are you?”_
> 
> _“Ten.” I remember still, how I wanted my voice to stop trembling from the cold. I did not belong in that tent full of weeping frightened girls._
> 
> _“You are quite the uncut jewel,” she said. “What is your name?”_
> 
> _“Anne,” I lied._
> 
> _She lifted my face towards the meager light creeping in through the torn sides of the tent and inspected my cheeks. “Kleis,” she said, “You look like a Kleis. Like the precious daughter in the Greek poem. Gentlemen in my circle love this sort of thing. Would you like to please the wealthy and erudite gentlemen of Paris, dearest?”_
> 
> _“Yes, Madame!” I said, hoping to sound as eager as possible._
> 
> _“Call me Mother,” she smiled, and our deal was sealed._
> 
> _I have used the first two sous Mother gave me now that I have started working for her house to buy this little notebook. Unlike my dress, my shoes, my room, and my food that belong to the old witch, this book is all mine; worked and paid for. It is not much to look at but it has a lock and smells of leather and something else earthy and sweet. Perhaps that is the smell of sin. It is definitely the smell of my revenge on that old painted hag. “To succeed in this life my girl you must learn to forget,” she tells me._
> 
> _So here they are. All those things I must forget, preserved in my own hand, in this leather-bound testament of my sins. It is unlike me to be upset by trivialities. Mother has trained me well. But this one thing bothers me and I must write it here so I can finally forget it.  Was it a sin? I do not think so, for I have sinned worse. Was it a lie? Yes, but I have lied worse._
> 
> _It happened six years ago but I remember it clearly. I was too young to work then. The evening he walked in was just like any other. It had been humid and hot and the candles and intoxicated men in the parlor made it feel suffocating. It was an auction night. Not mine, for was I never auctioned. I saw him wondering in the parlor from my dark corner at the top of the stairs. He seemed to be alone, unusual for a man so young. He looked embarrassed to be here and a little lost. When the auction started he looked horrified, about to faint. I felt a sudden urge to shove him out of the house, into the street, and back to his comfortable, provincial, home, his books, his mother and father sitting quietly by their bright, warm fireplace. But sin has always been my art. I approached him instead, where he had almost collapsed at the foot of the staircase._
> 
> _“Are you unwell, Monsieur?”_
> 
> _“Yes,” he mumbled. He looked entranced. Perhaps he was drunk? “Who are you,” he whispered, “I know you. What is your name?”_
> 
> _“Kleis,” I lied._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Uzés: small town in Southern France. It was a haven for Protestants during the religious wars of the 16th and 17th c. The events described here are fictional.


	10. Part III: Captive

**Part III: Captive**

_Tell me where is Fancy bred,_  
 _Or in the heart or in the head?_  
 _How begot, how nourished?_  

_(W. Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act 3, Scene 2)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III is based on Season 2, ep. 4, “Emilie”


	11. Old Enemy

_Paris, April 2, 1631_

 

He walks into the busy street as if waking from a nightmare. A familiar nightmare. He breathes in the cool morning air. It carries the scent of impeding rain. He is slowly aware of the life around him, the crisp colors and sounds. It is market day. Behind him, somewhere at the end of a dark corridor, there is the small dungeon, where, once again, he encountered an old foe he dreads. A foe he is not sure he can always subdue and knows he can never conquer.  He is not sure that the girl, Emilie, will either.

 

He knows this foe well. He remembers their first encounter as if it were yesterday.


	12. Black Water

_London, August 28, 1622_

 

“My quiet Frenchman,” Villiers (1) declared entering the salon after a day with the King. (2) “I simply insisted that you must be cast as Dumaine. I, of course, shall be Berowne and Robert will play Longaville. How do you like Miss Lucy Murray? She will make you an excellent Katherine!” (3)

 

“Your Grace, I am not…”

 

“What, darling boy? Not a poet? That, you are definitely not, although His Majesty insists that you may surprise us all. You are French after all. But you need not worry, _mon cher_. Your character is a dreadful poet!” he laughed as he sipped his wine. “So, back to Miss Murray. She is a lovely creature and ripe for the taking. Bound to make an excellent marriage soon, but for the moment she has eyes just for you. I know because she confided in me, silly little thing…”

 

Olivier knew Miss Lucy Murray well. She was the youngest among the Queen’s (4) ladies and cousin to the late Anne Murray who was once the King’s mistress, or so they say. (5) It somehow happened that Olivier always walked beside Miss Murray during the Queen’s evening promenades. It was not by chance. He enjoyed her thoughtful observations, her wit, her vivacity, and her sweet chestnut eyes…

 

“So, how do you like our Lucy?” the Duke insisted.

 

“I like her well, Your Grace…” He could not feign more feeling.

 

“Ah…I see…,” the Duke always enjoyed teasing him on matters of love. “Monsieur finds our English rose not enticing enough for his taste? Who is she my boy? She, whose eyes hold you captive? For, you see, it is quite obvious…”

 

“No one, Your Grace,” he smiled. “There is no one…”  What could he say? He never knew the girl’s name. He was not sure she even existed. Over the years he had convinced himself it had been nothing more than a dream, brought about by fever and intoxication: the girl standing on a dark staircase. The girl with the green eyes.

 

It is not that there had not been other women since. Intelligent, beguiling, beautiful, witty, vivacious…he had met them all. He knew it was absurd to measure them against someone he probably just dreamed. But it was not easy.

 

“Miss Murray will make a wonderful Katherine, Your Grace,” he agreed, “and I promise I shall not write her any poetry.”

 

The play was a success. Miss Murray looked radiant in her fancy costume, her character’s wit competing with that of her own. It had been years since Olivier had felt so elated, so free.

 

She touched his lips with her fan, “will you walk with me in the garden, Sir?”

 

He kissed the tips of her fingers, “only if you promise me this next dance.”

 

“Ah, the very man I was looking for!” the Duke’s excited voice interrupted their intimate conversation. He was accompanied by a cavalier Olivier had never seen before but Miss Murray seemed to know well.

 

“Dear Comte de la Fére,” exclaimed the Duke, his tone and formal introduction indicating there was more to this encounter, “permit me to introduce to you an old friend, Lord de Winter, who has just returned from your native country.”

 

“Monsieur,” said the gentleman bowing, “it is a pleasure to meet a friend of the Duke!” And turning towards Miss Murray he bowed in the most deliberate manner. “Dear Miss Murray,” he said, “I was looking forward to seeing you here this evening. Permit me to congratulate you for your exquisite performance. I wonder if you might grant me the honor of this next dance?”

 

The lady curtsied. “I would be delighted,” she whispered blushing, her eyes avoiding Olivier’s.

 

“ _Cher ami_!” cried the Duke the moment they were alone. “Do you realize that I just rescued you from a most awkward situation? That gentleman, dear boy, is Miss Murray’s betrothed. Imagine my surprise when I saw him arriving with the Baron, his brother! I thought both of them away in France!” (6)

 

“I owe you my reputation then, Your Grace,” joked Olivier.

 

“Indeed, you do!” the Duke laughed. “And unbeknownst to him, Lord de Winter owes me his life, for any duel between the two of you would have proven unfortunate for my compatriot. Still, dear friend, this must have been such an inopportune moment for you. I feel I must offer some recompense. What say you?”

 

“Recompense, Your Grace?”

 

“Oh, not in kind _cher ami_!” cried the Duke, “for what other lady at court compares to Miss Lucy in youth and beauty? And what other lady has ever managed to attract your attention? I had something else in mind… if you decide to follow me.”

 

Olivier agreed, a combination of curiosity and his desire to please the Duke, whose generosity and friendship had rendered his exile from France bearable these five long years. They entered another chamber, decorated in the manner of a Bedouin tent. The floor was covered with thick rugs and large colorful pillows and the air was fragrant with musk and myrrh. The King was there, lying next to Robert Carr. (7) There were also other gentlemen from the King’s retinue; the selected few he preferred the most.  Somewhere out of sight someone was playing an oriental tune on a flute.

 

“Ah, Steenie!” cried the King upon seeing the Duke. “You persuaded Young Lancelot to join us! Perfect! Our company is now complete!”

 

There was someone else in the room.

 

“Ismail Bey (8) has visited us with gifts from the Great Sultan,”(9) explained the Duke as he sunk into one of the large silk cushions spread on the floor. “Special gifts,” he added with a smile, drinking from the delicate silver cup the Turk handed him.

 

The Turk handed Olivier a similar small cup. “It is just the black water, _Effendi_. Drink!” (10/11)

 

Olivier hesitated.

 

“Drink, dear boy!” cried the Duke. “Ismail tells us that priests drink it in Constantinople to gain visions of heaven and future happiness. Trust me, there is truth in this. Who knows, perhaps you may be granted a revelation about another way into the forbidden chamber of Miss Murray!”

 

Olivier found himself drifting into a pleasant slumber. He was joyous, hopeful, as he never thought he could ever be. Suddenly everything seemed absolutely clear.

 

He saw Dido, jumping to welcome him home. He saw his mother, handing him his new cloak. “Wear it always and heed your father,” she said.  He could smell the fragrance of lavender and honey in her hair. There was his father too with the Hauteclere in his hands, and Thomas calling him to defend their fortress in the arboretum behind the church at Pinon. “I must tell Thomas about the dancing cobras,” Olivier thought. When was that? Had he seen them recently? Yesterday? Long ago? He suddenly remembered a letter left half-written in his mother’s wooden box… He must find it. He must send it. In a daze he stumbled out of the chamber.

 

That is when he saw her. Right there, under the bright candlelight of the main hall, amidst the dancers, the courtiers, the actors, and the musicians. She was there. He recognized her immediately, even before he had gazed upon her green eyes. He knew her form, her black hair, her pale skin, the minutest details of her features. How was it possible to know her so thoroughly, this woman he was not sure he ever met? But in his heart, he had no doubt. He felt it beating as it did the first time he saw her in that crowded brothel in Paris years ago. It felt as if it would burst through his chest…

 

“Ah, Monsieur de la Fére," cried a familiar voice. Olivier realized he would have to respond although his mind was still wondering in that arboretum behind the church at Pinon, and his heart was fixated upon the unexpected vision of a woman he thought did not exist.

 

“Lord de Winter,” he only managed to say.

 

“It is such a pleasure to find a French nobleman at our royal court, Monsieur,” the young man continued excitedly. “I have just returned from Paris. I was there with my brother. Such elegance Monsieur! I fear, our English court may be a disappointment to your sensibilities…”

 

“I have been away for almost four years,” Olivier said, making an effort to calm his racing heart and focus his wondering mind.

 

“Much has changed,” the young nobleman continued, seemingly unware of his interlocutor’s confusion. “You may have heard about the death of the Duc de Luynes. King Louis was inconsolable. But then this clever man took matters in his hands. Armand du Plessis. You probably have heard of him. He is expected to be elevated to Cardinal very soon…” (12)

 

“More good fortune for Charles,” Olivier thought. “Monsieur du Plessis is a very able man, indeed, Sir” he said instead. 

 

He could not take his eyes off her. It was impossible to look away. She was flesh and blood.

 

“Oh, I see you noticed my brother, Monsieur!” exclaimed Lord de Winter.

 

“Your brother?”

 

“Yes. The Baron of Sheffield. The gentleman with the blue cloak standing next to ….”

 

“Yes?” Olivier was anxious to be reassured someone else could actually see her.

 

“…that woman!” All at once, de Winter’s voice filled with disdain. “Oh Monsieur, such a disgrace! I fear I must admit to it, since now all the world knows. He has brought her to court! My brother met this woman in Paris. He plans to marry her. She is not, Monsieur… How should I put it… I fear she is not…”

 

Olivier cared little for de Winter’s disgrace. He stopped listening after the gentleman uttered the word “marry.” “That is impossible,” he told himself. “She cannot marry that man. She cannot marry any man.” Never before in his entire life, had he ever desired something, someone, so completely.

 

“Brother,” said Lord de Winter addressing the older gentleman standing in the middle of the great hall. “Brother, this is Monsieur le Comte de la Fére, the gentleman His Grace the Duke of Buckingham mentioned.”

 

The old Baron bowed with a smile and Olivier reciprocated, although his eyes could look at no one else but her. She was staring back at him, a faint smile at the edges of her lips. Was that recognition in her eyes, Olivier wondered?

 

He was not alone in this it seems. “Permit me Monsieur to introduce you to Mademoiselle Anne de Breuil,” said the old Baron quietly. "She has agreed to be my wife. I am, as you can see, a very fortunate man!” The lady nodded without uttering a word. Olivier felt her green gaze penetrating into the recesses of his soul. Could she hear his heart? “But pardon me,” continued the Baron, “have the two of you ever met before?”

 

“Have we?” Olivier’s voice was reduced to a whisper.

 

“I would have remembered, Monsieur,” she replied.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) “The Duke”, “Villiers”, “Steenie”: George Villiers 1st Duke of Buckingham. He is a major character in Dumas’ novel “The Three Musketeers” but he is not featured at all in the BBC series. Technically, since the series begins in 1630 and the siege of La Rochelle has happened (see, ep. Homecoming,) Buckingham is already assassinated by the time the BBC series begins (he was assassinated in 1628.) Buckingham was a courtier and probably a lover of King James I of England. James called him “Steenie” after St. Stephen, because Buckingham “had the face of an angel.”  
> (2) King: here, James I (James IV and I). James died in 1625 and was succeeded by Charles I (Stewart.)  
> (3) Berowne, Dumaine, Longaville, Katherine: characters in Shakespeare’s “Love’s Labour’s Lost.” Queen Anne of Denmark is known to have organized many masques as well as a performance/revival of this particular play. “Robert” is Robert Carr, see below, note 7.  
> (4) Queen: here, Anne of Denmark.  
> (5) Anne Murray: Later Lady Glamis. James’ lover between 1593-1595. “Lucy Murray” is not a historical character. She is invented for this story.  
> (6) Lord de Winter (Henry)/ Baron of Sheffield (George): These two characters (brothers) are fictional, invented by Dumas; I have given them plausible first names- "George" is a possible name for the older de Winter since his son's (?) first name is actually George in Dumas. In Dumas, the older brother is Milady’s second husband, after Athos (since Athos is not really dead she is also bigamous.) In Dumas, the older de Winter brother dies (or Milady poisons him) and she tries to make d’ Artagnan kill the younger brother (now Baron of Sheffield) at a duel so that her son (with the older brother? with Athos but passing as de Winter’s son?) may inherit the family title and fortune. This is a major plotline both in Dumas’ “The Three Musketeers” and in “Twenty Years After.” The BBC series changes the Dumas timeline by placing all action 5 years later than in the novel making the alternative storyline developed here, possible.  
> (7) Robert Carr: Later, Earle of Somerset was another well-known favorite (and lover?) of King James I.  
> (8) Bey (Ismail Bey): Title usually denoting a chieftain or leader or ruler of a region of the Ottoman Empire.  
> (9) Great Sultan: Mustafa I (the Saint during his reign; the Mad by modern historians). His reign was restored after his brother the Osman II (Osman the Young) was assassinated in May 1622 (age 17.) It makes sense that the new Sultan would send gifts to foreign courts although the story here is fictional.  
> (10) “Black Water”: Most depictions on film and television tend to connect opium to China. Historically this is true but only after the 17th c. During the 17th c. most of the opium trade was happening through the Ottoman Empire (capital: Constantinople) via Venetian merchants. Opium was in fact introduced to China in the 16th and 17th centuries by Turkish and Arab traders. In this part of the world, opium was taken orally. It was consumed as a liquid and not smoked with tobacco as happened later in China. Opium was used for recreational purposes in Muslim societies since the 14th c. Dervishes also used opium to enhance their meditation practices. In 1573 the Venetian Garzoni visiting Constantinople described the use of “black water” for recreational purposes among locals and noted the addiction that ensued, often leading to death. The description here follows this historical timeline.  
> (11) Effendi: My lord, lord, Sir… (Turkish)  
> (12) De Luynes: Duc, Charles d’ Albert was a favorite of Louis XIII. He is a character in the previous part of this story. After his untimely death, Armand du Plessis, stepped up to the role of confidante to Louis. Du Plesssis was made Cardinal in September 1622 (a few days after the story here.) He is known as Cardinal Richelieu.


	13. Envy

_Paris, April 2, 1631_

 

He remembers it all very well. His first encounter with the black water at the court of King James. It was followed by many other encounters. And anguish afterwards. The same anguish he witnessed this night locked in a dungeon with the girl, Emilie. She thought it was God speaking to her. He, at least, never had any such illusions.

 

In his mind that first encounter, that obsession, is inextricably woven with another. The desire to feel his senses heightened and the desire to possess her completely are one and the same.

 

He was envious of the old Baron, her betrothed. Because he touched her skin. Because he was familiar with her voice. Because he had felt her silk black hair. He had never felt envy before that night. Standing now in the busy street he suddenly realizes that he feels the same way again. That it all flooded back the moment he saw her in the King’s arms.

 

“I must conquer this,” he tells himself. “This is a different life. I am a different man. I let her go…” He wonders why he ever did. But then again, he had left himself with few options. “I must conquer this,” he repeats. “This is not love. What is the purpose of this envy? All this anger?”

 

He stops short. She is right there. Walking towards him, followed by her servant. She has never looked more beautiful, he thinks, elegant, sophisticated, desirable…

 

His feels his heart beating violently…

 

Envy and anger flood back once again…


	14. Part IV: In Silence

**Part IV: In Silence**

 

 _Moonset already,_  
_The Pleiades too: midnight_  
_The hour passes,  
_ _And I lie down a lonely woman_

_(SAPPHO, Fragment 168B, Transl. by Jim Powell)_

 

 

 _Village of Pinon, La Fére Estate, April 12, 1631_  


Catherine de Garouville was an only child. Her father was a gambling man. He gambled away his new wife’s wedding ring on his wedding day. Catherine had heard the chamber maid and the cook whispering about it once. Her mother never had a wedding ring.

 

Her father would disappear for days, or months at a time. On occasion, he would return with carriages they never owned. Most often he was followed by men in dark clothes. They would leave with everything the family owned, from their beds to her mother’s linen. Catherine’s mother would always stand by silently as they ransacked the house. And when they were gone she would continue her day’s work as if nothing had happened. As if their house was not empty. As if they could keep warm in the nights ahead.

 

When she was younger, Catherine used to ask questions. All her mother would say was “this is the will of God. We shall pray and complete our daily chores as all women must. God shall see to our needs.” Of her husband she never spoke any ill, if she spoke at all. “The vicissitudes of our human condition,” she would call their ransacked house. It was also what her confessor called it. She urged Catherine to pray for all their sins. Catherine sometimes thought her mother would have been happier if she had taken the veil, but she was told it was a sin to think of such things.

 

One day when Catherine was fifteen the dark clothed men came for her harp. She wept that day although no one would ever know. Girls like Catherine do not weep. That harp was her only joy in their empty, austere house of daily chores and prayer. She adored its nimble form, the way it perfectly fit in her arms, that special point along its strings where harmonies sounded sweeter. That harp was her most valuable possession. That harp was her voice. That day she decided that besides prayer and confession, there was no other reason for her to speak.  


Some weeks later, her father returned. He looked more troubled than usual. Her mother had lost her usual calm. From the half open door of the parlor Catherine caught fragments of their conversation. “The Marquis,” her father was saying, “almost lost his head and that of his younger son. He chose to lose his rank instead. Such an abomination. An ancient family to be treated thus…”

 

Catherine was summoned to the parlor later that evening. “Daughter,” her father said, “you are to join the household of our Grand Seigneur as a companion to the Marquise.” He cleared his voice as if he were embarrassed. “A great misfortune has befallen that great family daughter,” he continued, “to us they will never cease to be our great lords. However, the Queen Mother decided that they now reside here, close to us, at Pinon, at the small La Fére estate. It is an injustice against man and God…”

 

If she were a speaking girl, Catherine might have told her father about the “vicissitudes of the human condition.” Instead, she nodded in agreement, curtsied, and exited the parlor.

 

She knew the household she was about to join. They would always visit their de La Fére estate and the village of Pinon around Easter. The de Garouvilles always paid their respects to their Grand Seigneur alongside all his other vassals and subjects. Once the Grand Seigner’s family had stopped at their house. It was an exceptional honor Catherine’s father had explained. Those were good times for the de Garouvilles. There was tinder for the fireplaces and they had beds, and linen, and more than one servant. Catherine still had her harp. The Marquise was dressed in silk and had the most beautiful hazel eyes and a soft, warm, smile. “You play delightfully, my dear” she had observed. No one had ever given Catherine any praise before and she did not know how to respond. The Grand Seigneur looked like a king. Catherine knew he was not a king of course, but he looked exactly what she thought kings should look like.

 

They had arrived with their two sons. Catherine knew them since she was born. They all used to play behind the old church at the village at Pinon. The younger, Thomas, a year older than Catherine, was a talkative, high-spirited boy. He had his father’s dark eyes and his mother’s affable character. The older, Olivier, had his mother’s hazel eyes, but was always aloof and reticent. Soon after that visit they learned that he had joined the court in the retinue of young King Louis.

 

Catherine de Garouville arrived at the La Fére estate early on a spring morning. The house was not as large as she remembered it. But it was warm and welcoming, the floors covered with beautiful rugs and the walls full of paintings and tapestries. The lady received Catherine in her parlor, a pleasant wood paneled room with windows opening to a small private garden. She was sitting by the fireplace embroidering an exquisite tapestry. “Welcome, my dear girl,” she said standing up with a smile. “Marguerite will take you up to your room first. After you have settled, join me here. Perhaps you can assist me with the unicorn…”

 

Catherine’s life changed that day. It filled with warmth and color: humming songs as she worked on the tapestry and enjoying long afternoon walks in the garden, which by the beginning of summer was covered with forget-me-nots. Household chores seemed to confuse the lady and Catherine found it amusing that she was interested in her opinions. The lady spoke little of her life before they arrived to La Fére, and Catherine never asked. Occasionally, she would tell Catherine stories from long ago when she served as lady in waiting to the Queen Mother. Catherine cherished those stories most of all. The Grand Seigneur was a caring man. Kind and fair. He treated Catherine like a daughter.

 

Thomas was constantly riding, or hunting, or training with his fencing master. That last thing most of all. It was clear he was trying to surpass his older brother, who by now, everyone knew as the best swordsman at court and the King’s fencing tutor. It is not that Thomas did not love his brother. But after Olivier’s letters would arrive with news from Paris, Thomas would grow restless. He sounded resentful. On those occasions, his father would say “remember Thomas, your brother’s position is precarious. Remember, that his presence at court keeps all of us safe.”

 

Olivier never visited. His mother wrote to him often. “I wrote to him about you, dear Catherine,” she would say. “How much you have changed our lives here. How happy your presence makes me!” Although it was not explicit, Catherine could tell that she was being considered as Olivier’s future wife. She welcomed the thought. She had known Olivier de La Fére as a boy. She knew much about him as a man from his letters: what he enjoyed, his disappointments, his little annoyances. Did she like him? It made little difference. Catherine loved her life in this caring household, so different from her own. She would do anything to remain at La Fére. Why not marry the eldest son, whoever he had become?

 

It all turned out quite differently in the end. He married another and Catherine was silently passed on to Thomas. She did not mind that. She did not mind Thomas. She knew him very well. He grew up to be a man more like her father than his. He could be generous, although that was rare. He had a quick temper. He could be violent. Perhaps it was that La Fére was now the only family estate and Olivier was its rightful heir, or that Thomas was always second. Catherine told herself she could live with that.  


Then that woman walked into their lives. Thomas was not the same man after Olivier brought her from Paris. That woman… Why did she have to destroy the peace they had established? Catherine could never forgive her that. That above all other things.

 

All that is left of La Fére now is a burned ruin. No one knows how it happened. It just went ablaze one night. There is nothing left of the wood paneled room where Catherine and her lady worked on the unicorn tapestry, or of the pretty garden with the forget-me-nots. The Grand Seigneur and his lady have both passed away. Thomas was killed. Olivier is lost. Catherine’s mother took the veil and her father died leaving his daughter with nothing but debts. Men with dark clothes took their old house. The only thing Catherine salvaged is an old pearl necklace her mother used to wear.

 

Word from the village at Pinon arrived in the morning that Olivier has returned, although they called him Athos, his middle name. Catherine wonders if it is really him. What could she possibly tell him if this is so? What is there to say? How much? How little? She has been silent for too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part IV is based on Season 2, ep. 5 “Return”


	15. Part V: Eclipse

**Part V: Eclipse**

 

_When thou and I first one another saw:_  
_All other things to their destruction draw,_  
_Only our love hath no decay;  
_ _This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday…_

_(_ _John Donne 1572-1631_ _, The Anniversary)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part V is based on Season 2, ep. 6 “Through the Glass Darkly”


	16. Corona (1)

_Paris, May 31, 1631(2)_

 

It has been a long day. Longer, it seems than most days, despite the fact that for a brief time the sun disappeared behind the moon, imbuing the world in an unearthly orange glow and then into darkness deeper than a starless night. The air suddenly became cold. The stillness was deafening. The chirping of birds ceased and the horses at the garrison stood motionless as if entranced.  
  


People think that eclipses are bad omens. Athos is not a superstitious man and he was raised to question such irrational beliefs. But he cannot deny that in the aftermath of this day he feels troubled. It has been a strange day.

 

He sits by the window of his quarters with a glass of wine in his hands now, looking at the bright face of the moon; such a quiet ending for a day so eventful. He does not feel like drinking. It is unusual. With all that has happened, wine should be the best remedy. But he needs to think.

 

There is a plan behind this, he assures himself. There always is. He has been deceived many times before. She has deceived him. The last time haunts him still. It was not just her ingenious intervention and the Cardinal’s devious scheming, but also his own arrogant certainty that almost led an innocent woman to be burned at the stake. There is some clever plot again, he tells himself, and this time she is its author. There is no Cardinal now. And Charles… It somehow seems unfathomable that she works for Charles. But she has some plan now that she is the King’s Mistress and he must discover it.

 

Her green eyes glowed playfully as she danced for the King in the morning. “Milady, you will be the Moon,” his Majesty declared.

 

“But I am Venus, your Majesty!” she protested with a smile, and he laughed.

 

No one ever dares contradict the King! When did she become so sophisticated, so refined? Charles looked entirely defeated. With just a turn of her head, a wave of her hand, and one impudent remark uttered with subtlety and the most innocent smile, she outshined Charles completely. Athos found satisfaction in this indirect retribution, although it was completely unintended on her part. But he also felt bitter. “This woman who dances before the King with such grace,” he thought, “this woman who dazzles the court with her wit, this woman belongs to no else but me.” The King is an unexpected rival. How could he ever compete with the King of France? He is no one. Just a Musketeer…

 

For a brief moment her green gaze met his. It was neither disdain he saw in her eyes nor triumph. It was contentment and joy. Athos decided he could endure this, whatever game she was playing, no longer. He motioned to leave.

 

“Where are you going?” whispered Porthos in astonishment. “We are on duty…”

 

“I cannot watch this,” he said unable to restrain the anger and resentment in his voice, hoping that Porthos along with everyone else would perceive his reaction as indignation, seeing the Queen treated with such disrespect by her husband before the entire court.

 

“It is unacceptable, for Her Majesty to be treated thus,” Aramis voiced Athos’ irritation, for reasons that were quite different. Or perhaps, quite similar, Athos thought.

 

“As acting Captain, I must return to the Garrison. The Musketeer retinue is enough for the court visit to Marmion’s chateau,” he said. It was a decent excuse, but even if it were not, it would have to do.

 

Athos knows when it is wisest to retreat. He did not always… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Corona (=crown) is the bright aura of plasma surrounding the sun. It is visible during a total eclipse.  
> (2) There was indeed an eclipse on this date but it would not be visible from Paris.


	17. Diamond Ring (1)

_London, August 28, 1622 (same night)_

 

His clouded mind slowly cleared. “I must speak to you alone,” he said. “I must…” His voice faltered and then was drowned by a galliard that echoed in the royal hall.

 

“Not dance with me, then?” she retorted in an off-hand manner. What an inappropriate, unladylike thing to say in surroundings such as these! He wondered if she were being provocative since many young ladies at court thought it fashionable. But he could detect no dissimulation in her voice.

 

He longed to dance with her…

 

“Madame, it would be an honor,” he said trying to set the right tone and subtly remind her of her impropriety. “But not without permission from the Baron…”

 

“I do not see why his permission is required,” she shrugged looking at the Baron de Winter who was engaged in conversation with his brother and Robert Carr. (2) “George hates dancing. He thinks it a pastime for peasants and heathens. But it pleases His Majesty (3) so he will never admit his aversion.”

 

“And you do not comply with his desires?”

 

She looked genuinely puzzled. “George is a good man. He forbids me nothing. Why should I not amuse myself?”

 

His heart sunk a little. He was hoping for some admission of discontent, some grievance against the old Baron.

 

“Forgive me Monsieur,” she continued. “It seems strange to me that you insist on the Baron’s permission to dance with me but hoped to elicit a private conversation with me in secret. I would think the latter would be far more compromising than the former. But then again, I am not familiar with the customs of the English court.”

 

“Any court, Madame,” he said quietly.

 

“You have been talking to my future brother in law, then?” she smiled. “Henry does not approve of me. He thinks me too French and too bourgeois. I am not certain how one can be too French. It is a ridiculous notion, but poor Henry is so… English. As for bourgeois, I detest that entire class of hypocrite storeowners and landlords…”

 

Olivier should have found her directness scandalous. It was certainly uncouth coming from a young lady. Instead, he found it exciting and novel. “Fear not Madame,” he laughed. “There is nothing bourgeois in your discourse. As your compatriot I find it refreshingly French!”

 

“So then,” she retorted, “what was the topic of the private audience you intended to request?”

 

He blushed, embarrassed. This was no longer the right place. It was no longer the right time. She was not at all what he had expected. In his imagination she was always mysterious. In his imagination she never spoke.

 

“It was nothing, Madame,” he said quietly. “I… I was under the impression we had met before, a long time ago. But I fear now, I may have mistaken you for another…”

 

She looked up at him, her gaze momentarily inscrutable and her voice impenetrable. “It happens sometimes…”

 

“May I have the honor of this dance, then?” he asked, dismissing the image of her as a girl in a Parisian brothel.

 

The dance was followed by another…

And another…

 

“Dear boy,” the Duke of Buckingham called on him the next morning, “His Majesty missed you from our private little gathering last evening. (3) And then I hear you danced with that green-eyed French sphinx that de Winter brought to court. Good-old George! I never thought he had it in him! Beware, my boy. You were noticed. You were talked about. And good-old George may be dull and stingy but he is no fool and he is a loyal friend.”

 

“I apologize, Your Grace,” Olivier replied without making any effort to sound sincere.

 

“Of course, you don’t _mon ami!_ ” the Duke laughed. “She is a vision, I give you that! Poor Miss Lucy is quite outshined, I fear. Such a cruel fate too for those de Winter brothers! For it seems that one of these days, one or both of them may end facing the wrong side of your sword! Make it a deadly thrust in the name of Miss Lucy dear boy, if you must. The other one, her beauty notwithstanding, is not worth your honor or the Baron’s life…”

 

“I fail to follow your meaning, Your Grace…”

 

“Poor Robert had to endure Henry’s complaints while you were dancing with his future sister in law, _cher ami_. Henry is always discontent about some thing or other, but Robert was as intrigued by that creature as you were, so he decided to suffer the man. She is a mystery, my friend. Henry thinks she comes from Huguenots. If true, this alone should discourage you, a good Catholic who aspires one day to make his way back to the court of King Louis. The old Baron met her at some ball in Paris, according to his brother. She certainly looks decent. But there is something uncouth about that creature, _mon ami_. Uncouth and untamed… Perhaps you can enlighten us all more on this subject though, for you spent more time with her than anyone else…”

 

Olivier recognized her well in that description but refused to confirm it. He knew how damaging court gossip could be and how poisonous. She had done nothing to deserve it.

 

“I found nothing uncouth or improper in the lady’s manner and demeanor, Your Grace. As for her family’s religious affiliations, we neither spoke of them nor do they concern me.”

 

“You are the very picture of honor and nobility, _mon ami_ ,” the Duke replied, half-jokingly and half-peeved. “As a man of the world, let me give you some advice, dear friend. I feel obligated to do so, whether you take it or not. Retreat. There is something elusive about that green-eyed creature. Turn your gaze towards something more familiar, something tame. It does not have to be Miss Lucy either. This is just like any other battle, dear friend. And as with any battle, a clever knight knows when it is time to retreat. This is your time…”

Olivier smiled. “Thank you for your advice, Your Grace. I will definitely consider it.”

He did not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The Diamond Ring Effect is a feature of a total eclipse. As the Moon disc passes in front of the Sun, its uneven and rugged surface allows sunlight to shine through in some places but not in others.  
> (2) Robert Carr: Later, Earle of Somerset was a well-known favorite (and lover?) of King James I.  
> (3) His Majesty: King James I.


	18. Crescent Sun (1)

_Paris, May 31, 1631_

 

It is almost midnight. It is a full moon. He sits by the window, the glass of wine in his hands, untouched. There is some design behind her actions, he tells himself. Some clever design he cannot penetrate. There can be no other explanation.

 

She stood in the Captain’s office wearing nothing but a silk shift with her untamed black curls flowing to her waist. She never looked more beautiful, he thought. More determined. Who else would have escaped Marmion’s death trap bargaining their life against their freedom at the toss of a coin? He recognizes her recklessness well in this. But her motives leave him completely in the dark. Why risk her life at all? All she had to do was sit back, wait to be rescued, and pretend she was grateful to the King in the end. The King abhors outspoken, daring, women. She knows this. Everyone does.

 

He replays the scene in the Captain’s office in his mind, seeking clues. Well that, and because he wants to remember the minutest detail of that encounter. And how, for a moment, he felt at once vindicated and humbled.

 

“She is not to be trusted,” he reminded de Treville who seemed mesmerized both by her forceful presence and her incredible story.

 

“By all means,” she interjected without even condescending to look at him. “The King is being held hostage but let’s discuss my moral character. We have all the time in the world…”

 

“I am impressed,” he told her, trying to sound incredulous. “You are interested in something else besides yourself.”

 

“If the King dies I lose my position at court,” she replied.

 

It was a lie and a bad one. He could hear it in her voice. She knew well that she had already lost her position at court the moment she walked free out of Marmion’s grip. The King would never forgive her this independence. As the entire affair unraveled, her later actions were the best proof she had lied to him in the Captain’s office. Only someone naïve would have expected the King to endorse a woman dressed in a Musketeer uniform fighting alongside his men. And Anne is anything but naïve.

 

She fought well, too. Athos admits he was impressed. And then, surprisingly, she singlehandedly saved his life. It makes no sense. Almost a year ago, she would have shot him where he stood.

 

“I am grateful, for all it's worth,” he ventured, soon after the King had rejected her, as everyone would have anticipated. He persuaded himself he was simply probing into her inscrutable intentions. The fact is, he was indeed grateful; he still is. Not so much for his life but for her courageous intervention in the unfortunate events of the day.

 

“There was a time when this would have mattered to me,” she replied.

 

Athos closes the window. It is now past midnight. He sets the glass of wine on the table, still untouched. What is it he cannot see? Could she be truthful? He immediately dismisses the thought. He picks up the glass and drinks its entire content.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This happens twice during a total eclipse, at the beginning and right at the end before the Moon makes its final pass. It is the moment when only a sliver of the Sun remains to be seen (beginning of an eclipse) or hidden (end of the eclipse.)


	19. Darkness Lifted

> _Paris, May 31, 1631_
> 
> _Could I be losing my touch?_
> 
> _I played this game with the Cardinal for years. He had written the rules for me: You wait, you agree, and you appear grateful. If you must flatter, you do it with a hint of insolence. You never reveal the hand you play. You never reveal your independence._
> 
> _It worked most of the time. At least, until the Cardinal broke his own rules and succumbed to a pernicious and irrational fear that made him see enemies everywhere. He betrayed me and I lost everything._
> 
> _And then I lost some more. I lost the anger that had sustained me for years. I realized my revenge against the man who had signed my execution was in fact meaningless. As was the love he declared he had for me. There had been no love, just desire, and the urge for possession. We were both equally guilty of this. That day, when I lost everything, I was free._
> 
> _I had no expectations after that, but somehow, I was afforded a new life. I decided that in this life I write my own rules. In this life, I select my allies and enemies. In this life I do not have to agree and to appear grateful. I do no one’s bidding. I explained as much to Rochefort, that hapless snake. He is too arrogant and I doubt he listened. It is unfortunate for him._
> 
> _The King is not a bad man, just weak, changeable, and impressionable. His protection, important though it may be, is temporary. I cherish it of course and shall remember it fondly, but I have no illusions nor do I plan to forfeit my good judgment for his gold trinkets. It was bound to end. Frankly, it had lost its allure. He was a terrible lover. Perhaps I should be grateful to that madman Marmion, and his magic coin for giving me the chance to put an end to it._
> 
> _The old me, the one the Cardinal wrote rules for, would have perhaps endured the entire ordeal and pretend to be grateful to the King for being saved. Or alternatively, she would have walked away never to return with all her royal gold trinkets, seeking another victim. I opted for a different approach this time. The Cardinal would have derided it. “You are losing your touch, Madame,” he would have observed._
> 
> _Perhaps. After all, I lost the King’s protection. Still, it feels entirely different this time. It feels like a victory. This time all the choices have been mine._


	20. Part IV: Atonement

**Part VI: Atonement**

_If yet I have not all thy love,_  
_Dear, I shall never have it all;_  
_I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move,_  
_Nor can intreat one other tear to fall;_  
_And all my treasure, which should purchase thee,  
_ _Sighs, tears, and oaths, and letters I have spent…_

_(John Donne, 1572-1631, Love’s Infiniteness)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part VI is based on Season 2, ep. 7, “Marriage of Inconvenience”


	21. Broken Vows

_Paris, June 6, 1631_

 

He follows her quickly down the grand staircase, past the Red Guards who are escorting her out of the Louvre.

 

“Take it,” he says, handing her his purse. “This is all I have.”

 

She refuses his offer as he expects she would. As he too would have done. It was the wrong thing to do. The wrong thing to say.  He knew the moment he said it.

 

Still he has to do something. Say something. “I am her husband, I am responsible,” he reasons. He has deceived himself thus before. The first time, when he had signed her death sentence, he now dreads to recall. The second was almost a year ago.  “Go ahead,” she had defied him, facing the pointed edge of his sword. “Only do a better job this time.” He had declared himself responsible for her actions, and then had thought himself magnanimous for letting her go.  He was convinced that providence worked through him somehow. That his was the hand of fate.

 

“Who should I trust? You?” Catherine’s angry words resonate in his mind still. Now Anne’s rejection resonates in his heart: “There was a time when your good opinion mattered to me. It no longer does.”

 

He failed Anne, as he had failed Catherine, all in the name of his honor and his duty. Such convenient pretenses these two have been, his honor and his duty! Neutral and muted of feeling. He was raised to believe the heart is his most dangerous adversary. He was taught that it confuses the mind; that it has been the ruin of many a great knight. And what else distinguishes a nobleman but a dispassionate mind and level-headedness in battle? He recalls the oath he had sworn before his father in the royal crypt back when he was a boy. It has sustained him his entire life and made him the man he is. He never doubted his ability to uphold that oath or his superiority because he thought he did. Looking back now he is not sure he understood the meaning of it or what it really entailed. It was all too subtle, and he was too determined. Too eager.


	22. A Convenient Marriage

 

 

> _Paris, June 7, 1631_
> 
> _“The past is dead,” I told him as we both stood in the rain in the busy market street. I meant it._
> 
> _He scoffed at the idea. “The past is never dead,” he said, “you are no more able to change than a scorpion.”_
> 
> _That is where we differ he and I. He lingers in bitterness aimlessly. I think it life wasted._
> 
> _This is not to say that the past does not catch up with you occasionally. It can even come as a surprise. What you do with those encounters however is not inevitable as he surmises._
> 
> _That is also where we differ. He was raised to believe in providence. I was not._
> 
> _They introduced the man as Francisco Rodrigez de Flores, one of the gentlemen in the retinue of Count Gondomar (1), the Spanish ambassador to King James. His sounded like a fake name. He looked like a fake man. Too polished. He had the face of a cherub: pretty and ageless. A pleasant mask impossible to decipher.  I had met many such fake men in the life I had left behind in Paris. I was taught how to spot them early on and took special pride in ferreting them out in a crowded room. “Your instinct is infallible, dearest girl,” Mother used to say. “As long as you never let anything cloud your instinct. Your heart most of all; it is the worst enemy although one as talented as you will never fall victim to her heart.”_
> 
> _I should have been less arrogant. I should not have been so sure of myself. I should have followed my instinct the moment I met the excellent Se_ _ñor de Flores. But I had a new life, and I desperately wanted it to be unblemished. I had persuaded myself that it was my imagination; that being suspicious was ungrateful. This is my first excuse for failing to see him for what he was. There is a second one. For I was more foolish still. I was in love. I had never been in love before; or since. Those were strange days. Strange times. It felt safe for the first time, being in love thus. I deceived myself enough to think that I had become a child of providence. I thought myself immune. I was not._
> 
> _We had but just arrived in England. George, my intended husband was a kind man, fair, and generous. At times he reminded me of my father, although most memories of my father were replaced by the stories I had made up about him through the years. His younger brother, Henry, did not share George’s generous spirit nor his kindness. Henry was not an evil man, just mean-spirited. He did not approve of my liaison with his brother. It was understandable but that did not make Henry less unsavory to me._
> 
> _I cared little about politics back then, although I had always been privy to all kinds of political talk. Mother’s house was full of ambitious men of a certain position in society and at court. I would share the stories they confided in me to Mother. I thought it entertaining. I realized much later that these stories were part of what made me so valuable to her. She sold those stories the same way she sold me. It was in his Eminence’s service all this became clear. I made sure she paid back what she owed me for all those years of unintended labor._
> 
> _When I arrived to England however, I cared little for politics French, English, or Spanish. But George and Henry cared a great deal, as they also cared for Buckingham’s patronage. It was all about the marriage of prince Charles, the heir to the throne. (2)  Piecing it together later, I realized they had been sent to France by Buckingham to observe French intentions and ensure the alternative option of a French marriage. Of course, Buckingham was pushing for the Spanish match, so much so that he and the prince visited Madrid in disguise to win the Infanta directly. Villiers was a reckless and unscrupulous man._
> 
> _George was averse to the idea of a Spanish queen in England but would never oppose the Duke, his patron. Henry was less careful but obliged his brother and the family debt to the Duke. They both understood the Duke’s power, which often overshadowed that of the King. It was not so much because of religion. George was a secret Catholic despite putting up appearances. But he hated the Spanish. He thought them ruthless and hypocritical. “They wear their religion as a badge of honor while practicing the most atrocious acts against God,” he used to say. He preferred the French. Thought them refined and civilized. George was an unflinching man, with strong opinions._
> 
> _Se_ _ñor de Flores was courtly and attentive. Especially to Henry, who always sought an audience for his incessant complaining. “Poor Henry needs a friend, even if it is a Spaniard,” Olivier pointed out when I spoke to him of Se_ _ñor de Flores. “I fear I cannot oblige him. He is a man of too many grievances and I have no patience for it.” He was happy then, and as blind as I was._
> 
> _His only unhappiness was that I had married George. “Would you marry me instead, Monsieur?” I would ask him, knowing his answer and that he would never lie to me. He would lower his eyes. “I would marry you this moment,” he would say, “if I were not in exile. If the livelihood of my entire family did not rely on the good graces of a changeable King who looks upon us with suspicion. If I could afford to displease the Duke.” In retrospect, there were too many “ifs.” In retrospect, he was too cautious, calculated even. In retrospect, duty came before any feelings he had for me. But at the time I was too much in love to question any of it._
> 
> _I questioned nothing those days. When George died I mourned him but also thought it another sign that providence was on my side; our side. For Olivier and I were now free. The Spanish match fell apart and the prince was betrothed to the French princess. Those advocating for the Spanish paid dearly, some with their lives. All except Buckingham who managed to come out not only unscathed but more powerful. The French King was pleased. Olivier was summoned back to France._
> 
> _“Come back with me,” he said._
> 
> _I followed him back to France without another thought._
> 
> _It was years later that his Eminence showed me the two letters. The first was signed by a certain Charles Cesar. A trusted agent in Madrid was what the Cardinal called him._

_“Your Eminence,_

_Matters have reached a crucial turning-point. The Spanish Match is not proceeding as desired. Despite appearances the reckless visit to Madrid by the Duke and the Prince only rendered the entire affair even less attractive to the eyes of the bride-to-be. Word here is that even the Duke may shift alliances soon. Gondomar will not permit such a thing. He will not permit his career to end in failure. He has too much at stake. He is determined to remove all possible impediments. Not the Duke directly, for that would be a serious miscalculation. Definitely those close to the Duke that are more inclined towards a French alliance. I believe you are acquainted with the de Winter brothers. The old one in particular. He is loyal to the Duke and has been an outspoken advocate of French interests.  The younger one is a fool who can be easily manipulated. Gondomar is certain that an act against the old de Winter will shake any intention by the Duke to align himself with France. Gondomar has enlisted a number of men trained to act discreetly on such occasions. ‘A death with no blood spilled’ is the order. There is an Italian among the men commissioned. You know the man and his work. Francisco the Priest. He works with that whore Sophia Martinez. I hear he was paid dearly for the job. I am not familiar with their plan. But the old Baron is now newly married to a woman of no consequence. She might prove a convenient decoy._

_Charles César”_

 

 

> _The second letter was in Buckingham’s hand. I could tell without even looking at the signature. I had seen much of his correspondence by then._

_“Your Eminence,_

_I must first congratulate you for your ascendance. We should celebrate the upcoming betrothal that will connect our two kingdoms. The Spanish affair was perpetrated by the schemer Gondomar and his agents. The man wanted to end his career in glory. There were unforeseen victims but we must not linger on such unpleasant matters. I want to assure you that the awkward situation regarding the untimely demise of the Baron de Winter, a good friend of France, is in no way connected to any of our common interests but was a personal matter. The old man was married to a woman of ill repute. We must assume his death was motivated by greed. We should put this entire sad affair behind us and rejoice instead in our newly minted alliance._

_In Friendship,_

_George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham.”_

 

 

> _I remember his Eminence’s eyes fixed on me, as I read this correspondence. I suppose he longed to see some dramatic reaction. But by then, it was hard to find anything surprising._
> 
> _“How would you like to repay the Duke for his deep appreciation of you?” he inquired with a wry smile._
> 
> _“Very much, Your Eminence,” I replied._
> 
> _“Word is that he is about to sail from Portsmouth to join the rebels at La Rochelle. He must not.”_
> 
> _“Then he shall not, Your Eminence.”_
> 
> _The Duke never left England. I never touched the knife that killed him just as he never touched the poison that killed George. We were even._
> 
> _The man who administered that death now crosses my path once again, attempting to kill de Treville. Se_ _ñor de Flores, Francisco the Priest, Francisco the loyal servant of Princess Louise. The latter is highly unlikely. As it is highly unlikely that she is his intended victim. She should be dead by now, if George and de Treville are proof of how efficient he is. What was the name of the woman he worked with? Sophia… Sophia Martinez..._
> 
> _De Treville is also an unlikely victim. This reeks of that snake Rochefort and whatever plan he has set in motion. I have warned him already…_
> 
> _It is surprising how sometimes the past catches up with us in the most unexpected ways. It is what we do with those encounters that matter, for I am convinced there is no fate. There is only choice. My choice now is clear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Count Godomar: Don Diego Sarmiento de Acuña, Conde de Gondomar (Nov. 1, 1567-Oct. 2, 1626) was a Spanish (Galician) diplomat who served as Spanish ambassador to England from 1613 to 1622, and afterwards as a kind of ambassador emeritus, Spain’s leading expert on English affairs until his death.  
> (2) The story uses a historical incident known as “The Spanish Match”.  
> (3) To Dumas purists: because the BBC series changed the time frame of the entire story from Dumas (it starts 5 years later) this alternative sequence of events when it comes to the de Winter part of the story is now possible. In Dumas de Winter is Milady’s second husband. With the changes in the BBC series that timeline does not work very well any longer esp. since the Siege of La Rochelle is no longer part of the Musketeer story.


	23. Part VII: Spellbound No More

**Part VII: Spellbound No More**

_I loved you, Atthis, long ago_  
_even when you seemed to me  
_ _a small graceless child._

_But you hate the very thought of me, Atthis,  
_ _And you flutter after Andromeda._

_(SAPPHO, Fragments 17 and 18, Transl. by Julia Dubnoff)_


	24. Heart Over Mind

_Paris, February 6, 1623_

 

They arrived at Paris from Calais with a carriage, early in the morning. A heavy freezing rain the previous night had turned the city streets into slippery sludge. Fortunately, the wind and cold air masked the foul odors of humanity exposed and washed away in the rivulets of dirty water crossing the pavements. It was a gray day; just weak sunlight peeking through heavy clouds.

 

Yet, in his memory the day is imbued in warm sunlight. All he remembers is joy. She had slept in his arms and he shielded her with his cloak from the cold and the rain rushing in through the open window of the carriage. That night he has never forgotten, although many nights had come before and many others followed, rapturous ones, and later full of rage and sadness. That night was different. That night he cared little about his desire and her untamed beauty. That night not once did he think of possessing her. He simply lifted her head softly, removing her unruly curls from her face as she slept peacefully. He worried she might not be comfortable. He worried she might be cold. He had never considered such things. For a moment he felt joyous as never before. But only for a moment. For he was suddenly filled with dread and embarrassment, as if he were exposed. He was glad she was asleep and did not witness such momentary weakness. Despite his best efforts to return to his cool-headed, poised self, the sentiment lingered a little longer. And the morning that followed, their first morning in Paris, cold and dreary though it was, has remained in his memory a warm cloudless day illuminated by the most brilliant sunlight.

 

He was himself again by late that afternoon. Rain had turned to sleet and sleet to snow. They were at the same inn he had stayed when he had first arrived in Paris with his father decades ago. Perhaps it was even the same room although it looked smaller. He spent almost all afternoon staring at a blank page. He had to write this letter. He never found writing difficult before. Besides, all these years in exile, this was the letter he had always hoped to write. He had composed it in his mind long ago. He took pride in his restrained eloquence and dispassionate tone. He had practiced this language for decades, first in the French, and later in the English court.

 

“ _Dear Father and Mother_ ,” that letter went, _“Providence and the kindness of His Majesty, King Louis, have made my return to France possible. I shall return to our estate, prepared to resume my duty to our family, our lands, and our people.”_

 

Only the letter felt disingenuous. For there were duties he was neither prepared nor willing to assume. His duty to Catherine, for one, now clearly expected to become his wife. And of the lands he owned, or of the people who occupied them, he knew nothing. His had been a life spent at royal courts, not among petty lords vying over fenced lands or farmers worried about crops. The last time he had visited Pinon he was a boy pretending to be a Musketeer killing Protestants at the arboretum behind the old church. That was the only thing he remembered of the place.

 

 She sat by the fire reading the book they both liked. (1) _“Who art thou among men, and from whence? Where is thy city, and where thy parents? Amazement holds me that thou hast drunk this charm and wast in no wise bewitched,”_ she read out loud, in a playful voice. _“_ _Come, put up thy sword in its sheath, and let us two then go up into my bed, so that couched together in love we may put trust in each other.”_

 

He laughed welcoming the distraction. _“Nay, verily,”_ he played along, _“it is not that I shall be fain to go up into thy bed, unless thou, goddess, wilt consent to swear a mighty oath that thou wilt not plot against me any fresh mischief to my hurt.”_

 

“You are skipping verses,” she observed with a giggle. 

 

“Only the dull ones,” he said, walking up to her with a smile.

 

She stood up laughing and wrapped her arms around his waist leading him towards the bed. He kissed her lips, and then her long pale neck. _“Circe,”_ he whispered, _“what man that is right-minded could bring himself to taste thy charms?”_

 

She let her arms fall. Despite her playful tone, there was sadness in her voice. _“Odysseus, man of ready device, the mind in thy breast is one not to be beguiled.”_

 

Later that evening he received a letter. It was from his father.

 

> _“Beloved Son,_
> 
> _We received word of your return to Paris and your possible address in the city from Captain de Treville. We understand that you may have to remain in Paris for as long as his Majesty sees fit before He releases you._
> 
> _I write unbeknownst to your dearest Mother who waits your return with great anticipation. Monsieur de Treville is a discreet man but his letter intimates that you have chosen your own path in life and that it may be different from our expectations; your Mother’s most of all. This is as it should be. For what can we possibly know of the challenges you have faced all these years to keep us protected? I have every confidence in your actions. I have no doubt they are honorable. But I worry lest you may have sacrificed your own happiness. For what all these years in this quiet corner of the country have taught me is that a life of honor and duty may be grand, but it is small intimate joys that make life worth living. Do forget your happiness. Tend to your heart not just your mind._
> 
> _Waiting to see you again my beloved boy,_
> 
> _Your Father”_

 

Olivier set the letter aside, perplexed. His father must have become softer with age. All these years living away from court must have changed his perspective. The idea that his father had always been the same man did not occur to him then. It never occurred to him that when he swore to uphold honor and duty in the royal crypt he was never asked to sacrifice his heart. He had never considered such idle questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The book Athos and Anne (Milady) quote from is the Odyssey (Homer, Book 10, 302-428)


	25. Narrow Line

_Paris, May 31, 1623_

> _“Dear Catherine,_
> 
> _I write to you from Paris….”_

\- No. It will not do.

>  
> 
> _“Dear Catherine_ ,
> 
> _I have been in Paris now for two months….”_

 

He stares at the letter he started at midday and cannot complete. Here is what he craves to write:

 

> _“Dear Catherine,_
> 
> _I have tasted life. That lust you fortify yourself against with your small, slender, manicured, hands, your tightly braided hair, and your neat dresses with the white starched lace. I have tasted the fragrance of her untamed black curls on sheets that have carried the smell of other men and discovered the burning desire of conquest._
> 
> _I cannot lie to you. I could never lie to you. I have known you since we were children. But behind your eyes, those eyes that have always bowed respectfully, I saw nothing but empty space. To be filled with sons that will bear our family name, whose neat clothes will carry no stains or wrinkles as they will carry our unstained legacy for another generation: predestined, ordered, and lifeless._
> 
> _Here, in this city infused with the vanity and stench of its people, I find myself living and alive as never before. Drawn to seek the mystery which lurks behind a pair of green eyes. Something slippery and evasive, something I cannot understand but yearn to possess. Never before have I felt the urge to possess something so entirely. The more I fail the more I am obsessed. I don’t know who this man is that writes this letter, but it is the man I must be to possess her._
> 
> _I am sure this letter will not cause you any pain. You will neatly set it aside, bind it with a silk ribbon, and silently endure this moment with dignity and the hypocrisy of our exalted race. And then you will marry Thomas. It makes no difference to you, to him, or to our parents._
> 
> _Be well Catherine. May your little life fulfill everyone’s expectations and even maybe your own._
> 
> _Your loyal friend, still,_
> 
> _Olivier”_

 

He picks up his pen and writes:

 

> _“Dear Catherine, I married another.”_


	26. The Color of Winter

> _La Fère Estate, April 2, 1624_
> 
> _Cold. That is the color of winter. Cold, like this ancient house and these people: listening through closed doors, whispering in corridors, and dignified; always dignified._
> 
> _It was late summer when we finally arrived after almost a year in Paris. The house glowed in the warm rose-colored light of the afternoon, a delicate white curtain wafting in the breeze at an upstairs window. The servants were lined up. Not too many, he explained holding my hand as I stepped from the carriage, and all of them with the family for decades, as were their parents and grandparents._
> 
> _There was Grimaud, his father’s old valet, and_ _Rémy, the son of his father’s steward._ _Rémy who long ago had accompanied him to Paris in the court of King Louis but just wanted to be a blacksmith. The Gentle Giant, he called Rémy in the childhood stories he had narrated during the small hours of the first night we had spent together in London. I had no childhood stories to tell, my childhood stranded somewhere between a rotting tent outside Uzés and a Parisian brothel, so I listened.  His voice would get warm and excited, boyish even, but behind his piercing eyes I got a glimpse of something else, in equal measure alluring and terrifying. I had no name for it yet, but I knew, from that first night that I would never escape that fleeting thing behind his eyes. I knew I could never live without his voice. I knew, from that very first night, that it was all a terrible mistake. It was all forgotten by dawn._
> 
> _The mother was standing at the entrance. Still young, round faced with rosy cheeks, soft round lips, and, right there, unmistakable, the same hazel eyes, although devoid of his fire and obsession; kinder, softer. Will he look at me through such kind eyes when we are no longer young? Or much sooner, if he ever learns everything… There was no need to finish that last thought. I know well never to anticipate the future._
> 
> _The father bowed, rigid and stern. A tall man, well built, his long black hair streaked with gray; eyes black, and small.  And then there was the younger brother. Thomas. Slender figure, round faced like the mother, but pale and emotionless, except for a pair of small, busy, black eyes that reminded me of Saracen’s and observed my every move, even when I was not looking. There was the sister in law, Catherine, standing right behind the mother. Aloof, pale, her hands crossed on her lap like little girls do at church. She curtseyed lightly and spoke a little. I cannot recall the color of her eyes to this day. Something colorless._
> 
> _The house was silent. Only the creaking of our feet could be heard as we walked upstairs. It was not the expected match for the first-born. “Who is this woman who has turned your head against your family’s happiness?” wrote his mother in one of her letters. “I weep for our family and our name.” He kept her letters in a locked wooden box with the family crest carved on top, in our rooms in Paris next to the vase of forget-me-nots, my favorite flowers. It was not difficult to pick that lock, just a hairpin and some patience. Saracen had taught me well._

_“Dear Olivier,_

_I understand. Thomas and I got engaged in the family chapel two days ago. I thought you would be happy for us._

_Your loyal friend, still,_

_Catherine”_

> _That was the first time I had ever heard her name._
> 
> _Our room, the room with the opened window and the white curtains, felt cool and inviting. There was the fragrance of fresh flowers and, from somewhere in the distance, a delicate scent of rain. Beyond the open window, as far as the eye could see, among the well-trimmed garden trees, a veil of blue mist rose from the earth. Forget-me-nots, my flowers; those small playful blossoms they call the scorpion grass.  I pressed one for him. He wears it in a locket around his neck: “I am yours forever now, milady”, he whispers. Perhaps, this time, I found home, I think gazing at the blue mist, but just for a moment. I have learned never to linger on such futile expectations._
> 
> _The summer gave away to a glorious fall. I had never seen the fall. Maybe when I was little, before Uzés, when we were happy at the old stone house by the sea. But those days I have now forgotten. There was no fall at our street in Paris. Seasons came and went but I only remember gray winters and the humid stench of summers.  Here, gold barley fields stretched as far as you could see framed by deep forests, the trees changing overnight from dark green to every possible hue of red and yellow. We walked those fields together, greeting the villagers harvesting the crops. “You need to bow your head and smile, milady”, he would whisper in my ear playfully, placing a furtive kiss on my neck as we passed by. And other times when we were alone, no soul around, he became the excited boy of his midnight stories and I, the girl I had never been. I will always be grateful to him for those moments, despite everything that followed._
> 
> _Winter came early. It was sleet and rain and leaden skies, with almost no glimpse of sunshine. The house, its ancient austerity once inviting, now felt cold and remote, as if we were the only people in the world. Except for the priest who dined with the family once a week we rarely entertained or had visitors. It was strange at first, although I admit I cared little for society. It seems we were the only two people in the family happy in this isolation. He would touch my hand on the table or press his knee against mine as we sat by the fire; a sign to ask permission to “retire for the night.” Those nights he giggled like a naughty boy and I held him in my lap and played with his long curly hair until he fell asleep.  The isolation of course was self-inflicted and it was all because of me. Thomas had enough of it, he yelled one night, banging all the doors behind him, enough of his brother’s wife branding the family name and legacy. There was no other commotion, no strong words were exchanged, no violent retort. The father stood up silently and left the room. That night he passed away in his sleep.  And the next morning we saw the first signs of spring._


	27. Shallow Regrets

_La Fère Estate, April 3, 1624_

He sits at his father’s desk. With his fingers he traces the dents and marks on that ancient table from which his father and grandfather, and generations of de La Fère nobles before them determined the destinies of this family. But more than this, he secretly hopes that somewhere on this old wooden surface, he can feel his father’s warm touch, reaching back to him. The touch, the loving gaze, the soft smile all those rare gifts that he had denied himself with this marriage. Olivier’s father was not an indulgent man. But he was fair and understanding. “Mind your heart,” he had advised in his letter, and that was Olivier’s claim when he first arrived with his new bride. His father had listened in silence. “I trust you, Olivier,” was the only thing he said lowering his eyes. “We shall never speak of this again.”

 

The sudden sting of betrayal makes Olivier’s heart sink to the depths of despair. If only they could have spoken. If only he could have explained better. If only there was more time. If only the urge to possess her had not taken over him so suddenly and so completely. Why is it that he finds her in the innermost crevices of his soul, standing between him and everything that he ever held precious; this enigma he cannot conquer? The room still bears the signs of his father’s presence: his gloves left on a chair, his hat hanging on the wall. The hound, the one his father called Hector, whimpers at Olivier’s feet. He knows his master is gone.

 

It has been but a day. His mother cries silently by the window where she used to sit stitching the tapestry of the unicorn hunt. Catherine sits by her silently with her hands crossed on her lap staring at the floor. Thomas first wept like a child and then, in a rage, fled the house on his horse. “It’s all because of her” he howled, “her and you!” Upstairs, in his parents’ bedroom his father lies waiting. He must ascend those stairs, enter that room, and sit by his father, see his father, lying there, motionless, on that bed. He has not entered that room since he was a boy having nightmares on stormy nights. He enters the room in trepidation, just like he used to back then. Only now everything, even the air, is standing still. As he touches his father’s hand he realizes for the first time that now this room, this bed, this house, this estate are all his. And hers. The sting of betrayal returns only it burns deeper.

He cannot forget the letter he had received a day before his father’s death. Thomas disappeared to Paris for some time before that and Olivier was certain he knew why. In its badly written, misspelled French, the letter confirmed his suspicions. It now fuels his anger.

 

> _“Dear gracious (sic) Monsier (sic) le Comte de la_ _Fère,_
> 
> _As I explained to your Honorable Brother who was just here in Paris, Mademoiselle Debreuil (sic) is my most beloved daughter whose father fought heroically at La Rochelle, and died of his injuries, defending our Faith. Your Exalted Brother indicated that he would continue his inquiries and he would pay generously for any information on the lady you call your wife. There are many versions of the lady’s story for a good price and he can choose the one that serves him the most. I would be happy to provide him with all kinds of information. So, it seems to me that it is to everyone’s best interest to make sure that His Grace Your Brother is kept satisfied with what he uncovers.  I do not ask for your generosity since it is Your good name that is spoken of now in the streets of Paris and Your Family bliss that I can help you preserve. Monsier (sic) Saracen, the one who keeps my house safe, advises me that 500 livres would suffice at the moment. Of course, should Your Grace’s intentions towards the lady change, it would be an honor to serve You and any Honorable Member of Your Family further._

 

She is standing in the garden, under the tall oak tree, in the midst of the new blossoming forget-me-nots of spring. She wears the blue robe that changes her eyes to the color of the clear summer sky. “I must know the real color of your eyes,” he had insisted as he softly traced the dent at the base of her neck with his finger. They were lying in a field of barley and the afternoon light of summer reflected in her eyes made them look like emeralds. She smiled her cryptic smile “whatever you would like them to be.” In his dreams he sees her often standing under that oak tree, her back turned, her black hair loose to her waist. He walks towards her but can never reach her. It scares and angers him and soon another feeling overwhelms him so completely that he wakes up. He refuses to name it but he knows it is hate.

 

She turns. Her eyes are red. He has never seen her weep and never imagined she could.  She wipes her tears with her sleeve and fakes a playful smile: “Will you love me less now? I was raised to believe that gentlemen don’t like girls with puffy eyes.”

 

“Was that in Paris or before?” He is taken aback by his cruelty, not because he does not mean to be cruel, but because he always thought himself courteous.

 

She looks amused. “In Paris. When I lived with Mother. I don’t remember anything from before.”

 

“Misfired,” he thinks, disappointed.

 

After the funeral, when his mother retires for the evening and with Thomas too drunk to notice, he sits next to Catherine. He holds her hand and kisses her on the cheek making sure he is seen and heard. “As I did when we were little and you were hurt,” he says. He knows that the arrow has reached its target. 


	28. Part VIII: Crossroads

**Part VIII:** **Crossroads**

_I am two fools, I know,  
_ _For loving, and for saying so…_

_(John Donne, 1572-1631 Triple Fool)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part VIII is based on Season 2, ep. 9 “The Accused”


	29. Change of Heart

_Paris, June 13, 1631 (after midnight)_

 

“Where is your heart?” she had cried. “Where is your heart, Olivier?”

 

“We had enough of your lies,” Catherine had interjected, silencing her. She was taken away. That was the day he had signed her death sentence. He never saw her execution. It had to be done. It was his duty. Where was his heart then? Where is it now? Can the heart be perplexed or is this only an affliction of the mind? Had he been more attentive to his heart he might have had the answers.

 

It made sense that she would put a price on her information about Rochefort. That is who she is. That is who she has always been. “I want two hundred livres,” she demanded and he felt justified. He even told her so. “There is no soul left in you, is there?” And then, recalling the childhood oath which marked his entire life, he added “if you help us, do it for France. Do it for yourself.”

 

He was not sure why she helped them without claiming her price. To spite him? Because she despised Charles? Yet, she admitted she had killed Peralez on Charles’ orders. “I did it to protect myself,” she argued. Her explanation was convincing. This is her art.

 

He could not possibly trust her. He told her as much knowing that he sounded sanctimonious. She was amused. “Of course, you cannot trust me,” she scoffed. “What else would you expect from a woman like me? In the meantime, the King is bouncing another man’s child on his knee. I assume your high moral standards are not offended by that.”

 

He could not decipher her motives nor match her wit, so he remained silent. He decided to take the risk out of desperation: Charles a Spanish agent, the Queen accused of treason, and Aramis…

 

She led them into the palace through passages he did not know existed. She distracted the Red Guards outside the Queen’s apartments. She knew how to dispose of all the evidence after the Queen’s escape. She was impeccable. Meticulous. Efficient. This is not the woman he had known. This woman has little need for his guidance, or his protection. He would be naïve to offer either. Next to her he feels as provincial as when he first arrived at the Louvre. The old urge to possess her dissipates; a fatuous delusion…

 

It was Catherine who intervened, and in doing so provided clarity. That was not her intention. She claimed it was justice she was seeking. She was only seeking vengeance. For herself. This was not about Thomas and it never had been. Olivier has known for a long time. The truth is that the Thomas who had greeted him upon his return to La Fére was not the boy he had left behind.

 

“You know nothing of this place!” Thomas had exclaimed. “You know nothing of the people who live here! I have worked for years in your absence but somehow my sacrifices are not as important as yours. They have never been as important as yours. Not even when I fought father’s futile war against the Queen Mother; actually fought… weapons, battles, death. Have you ever fought a single battle, Olivier? A battle you know is already lost before you even begin to fight? Where were you when our father was called traitor? Exchanging pleasantries at some royal gathering? You arrive from your pampered court life with your fancy wife and I am handed your second best and told to go out and make something of myself!” They faced each other behind the old church at Pinon, the one they used to defend pretending to be Musketeers when they were children. “You can do no wrong. I can do nothing right. And even when I do the right thing, it makes no difference.” Thomas’ assessment was not altogether incorrect. But it was not altogether fair either. It would have been difficult to explain, and Thomas was too enraged to listen.

 

“We both have to do our duty for our family…” was the only thing Olivier could say.

 

“Duty must be your favorite fiction, brother. You throw it around as if you know what it means. Why did you not marry Catherine? It was your duty after all. It is certainly not mine. And yet, you chose to bring along this other one. Do you take us all for gullible fools? Do you think any of us believe that she is the daughter of some ennobled veteran? It is not even a good lie. But unlike our father and mother who will accept your every transgression I am not that forgiving. I shall treat her as she should be treated; like the whore she is.” Olivier thought these were words spoken in the heat of anger. At the time he did not expect his brother would act upon his threats. He hoped…

 

Standing alone at the makeshift gallows, a noose around her neck, Anne did not yield. Not once. She could just lie and walk away. Many years ago, at a situation not dissimilar to this, facing Catherine’s resolve and an executioner, she had lost everything maintaining her innocence. “Do you insist my brother assaulted you?” he probed, knowing the answer. He was familiar with the man that Thomas became, as was Catherine. “Why would I lie about it?” she shrugged and he was surprised to see sadness in her eyes.

 

“Where is your heart, Olivier?” her voice echoed from another life, long ago.

 

He closed his eyes and surrendered to its call. She was standing too close. Concealed in the crypt behind Charles’ study all he could hear was her breath and his beating heart. His hand sought hers in the darkness. He ventured to hold it and she did not shirk from his touch. She lowered her head and in the narrow, restricted, space her silk black curls brushed against his skin, the fragrance of jasmine caressing his senses. How could he have muted them all this time? How could he not? His mind reeled, desperately seeking for reasons he should not indulge this sudden longing, but they kept slipping away like sand through the fingers.

 

He is not sure what he had expected. It is not that he had not met her lips before. But those have been encounters of her own design for her own purposes. He asked himself often why he kept returning, knowing her deceit. Perhaps to confirm a faded memory of her in his arms; in his bed?

 

This time was different. Enthralling. Unexpected. She felt different in his arms. It was a difference he welcomed. She reciprocated and he could tell she was equally surprised. Perhaps she was as blindsided as he was; astonished to find him as changed as he found her.

 

The moment passed. They continued as if nothing extraordinary had happened. As if they had not suddenly abandoned the defenses they had been vigilantly building against each other for years. In that, he realized, they are similar.   
  
He follows her out of the study now with nothing except Charles’ seal. Terrified voices fill the empty palace corridors, and panicked courtiers and guards rush to their positions.

 

“The King is poisoned!”

 

He motions to follow the crowd but she holds him back. “Don’t!” she advises, “this is Rochefort’s plan and it is well underway. We need to wait and see where he takes us.”

 

She extends her hand, leading him away from the King’s apartments. He takes it without hesitation.


	30. Change of Mind

> _Paris, June 13, 1631 (after midnight)_
> 
> _First, he takes my advice, suppressing his natural inclination to rush into danger._
> 
> _Then he takes the hand I offer without hesitation._
> 
> _It happened once before but he does not remember. He was very young, and I even younger. At the time I thought he was not used to the wine. Later, I realized he was not used to the entertainment Mother’s house afforded. I had touched his forehead and it felt unusually warm. Perhaps he needed air I thought, and some water. I told him so, and he nodded silently. I had given him my hand and helped him to his feet._
> 
> _“Are you alone here, Monsieur?”_
> 
> _Young men of his age were rarely seen at Mother’s house unless they were brought by some older relative. Mother was mostly after old rich ones, the ones desperate for company and attention. “Young men make fickle customers,” she used to say. Older ones were the most likely to be loyal to her girls. She meant of course, that they were the ones who kept paying her for the services we provided._
> 
> _The boy had whispered a name. It sounded like Charles. I wondered who’d have brought a boy so green and tender to this house. Perhaps it was a vile prank. Boys of that age can be cruel._
> 
> _We had almost reached the door before Saracen stopped us. He was a vigilant dog with a nasty bite but I was smarter. “I do not think Mother wants anyone sick here tonight, not while bidding is so promising,” I lied. Poor Suzette could not even fetch two sous. We put the boy in a carriage. “To the Louvre,” Saracen ordered. I had no idea. I had never met anyone who lived in the palace before._
> 
> _I never looked back after I left Mother’s house. All the men who came and went, I erased from memory. Except him. I never knew his name._
> 
> _“Olivier,” he said lowering his eyes. It was years later, in England. For a moment, I thought he recalled our first encounter, but he never broached the subject and neither did I. He had changed. His features were sharper and his hazel eyes no longer innocent. I saw desire reflected in them and mistook it for love. It was not his fault; I wanted it to be so. Then I watched it dissipate. Except for love I have traced every possible hue in those eyes. I saw it change to anger, resentment, and then, to resigned indifference._
> 
> _The day he signed my death sentence I asked him if he had a heart but he ignored me, as I had expected. Duty came before everything; duty to his family and duty to his brother. He felt responsible for Thomas, absurd though it sounds. Everyone knew what kind of man Thomas was, Catherine above all. She endured his violent outbursts. She covered her bruises. Then she smiled her quiet smile and moved on with her life as if she were blessed with the kindest man in the world. They all did the same. A great many things depended on such show of respectability. The family name was everything. In retrospect, it makes sense that when forced to choose between all that and me, he did not think twice._
> 
> _“I gave you everything,” he protested during the meeting he arranged, where he asked for my help against Rochefort, although he called me deceitful. I have no doubt he believes it. In a way it is true. He gave me all he could give. I had no chance against his duty and his family honor. I do not forgive him for a moment, nor trust him, but I understand._
> 
> _Catherine, I pity most. She was twice betrayed. Not by me; for I had nothing to do with her. I did not know she existed until I married the man who had been promised to her. By the time we arrived at La Fére she was already engaged to Thomas. She and I rarely spoke, if at all. Yet, she demanded my execution as if she knew me well, vowing for Thomas’ integrity and my lasciviousness, her voice echoing that of her betrothed. He had called me many things and some part of me had even thought I deserved them. He could be convincing that way. Who could argue against a man like Thomas and a witness like Catherine? I realized that no protestation or excuse would change my fate. I had stabbed him with his own dagger._
> 
> _I find Catherine’s makeshift gallows as pitiable as her grievances. I refuse to indulge the fantasy she has created about the man she was going to marry. I care little about their family name, their respectability, and their family honor. In my mind, they have none. I still feel Thomas’ breath on my skin at times; waking up after he hit my head against the wall, finding myself pinned against the floor, one of his hands holding a dagger to my throat and the other tearing my skirts. “You are feisty for a cheap street slut,” he scoffed. I do not care to remember more of that night. It is an unseen scar I dare not touch. But the waves of rage that came after, I cannot forget._
> 
> _He returns to it now and it is perplexing. “Do you still maintain my brother assaulted you?” he asks. Perhaps Rochefort’s attack on the Queen raised the specter of his brother from long ago. But why does it even matter? What difference can any of this make now? Why does he insist?_
> 
> _I thought I knew every hue in his hazel eyes but what I now see I do not recognize. He speaks to me as if he sees me for the first time. There is tenderness in his features and it is unsettling. Cynicism, contempt, and sarcasm, those I understand. I pride myself at matching him in all three; thrust for thrust, word for word. He is a worthy adversary, better than the Cardinal. I provoked every single one of our recent encounters; our every embrace, our every kiss. Timed them even. It was the Cardinal’s game; it was my game. He was a willing player. But against this gentleness I do not know how to parry._
> 
> _In the darkness, he reaches for my hand…_
> 
> _In the darkness, I let him take it…_


	31. Part IX: A Certain Kind of Promise

**Part IX: A Certain Kind of Promise**

  
_"Now thou has loved me one whole day,_  
Tomorrow when you leav’st, what wilt thou say?  
Wilt thou then antedate some new-made vow?  
Or say that now  
We are not just those persons which we were?"  


_(John Donne, 1572-1631, Woman’s Constancy)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Part IX is based on Season 2, ep. 10 “Trial and Punishment”


	32. Choice

_Paris, June 20, 1631_

 

“For the Captain!”

The messenger hands a sealed envelope to the guard at the gate. Athos does not need to look at the seal nor the handwriting. He places the letter inside his shirt. It is not yet time.

 

> _“To Athos, Captain of the King’s Musketeers.”_

 

The inscription on the letter is premature, he thinks.

 

He is Minister de Treville’s first choice for Captain. An unlikely position for the man he used to be but a fitting one for the man he has become. He lingers though, undecided. The man he used to be, that dispassionate unflinching man with few ambitions and many expectations, is still with him. There remains a part of Athos that finds the offer absurd. The man he has become hesitates even more. Neither providence nor fate can help him make this choice. The man he has become is afforded no such luxuries.

 

“I will wait for you until noon,” she promised. “We can leave France together.” There were moments that day, and night, when he would have followed her anywhere.

 

“There will be a war with Spain and the Musketeers must have a new Captain,” intimated the Minister. They were standing side by side at the Garrison chapel. Constance was there, wildflowers in her hair, with d’ Artagnan in his new uniform, beaming, and a little nervous. Porthos and Aramis looked like proud older brothers. Athos recalled his youth, before the Heuteclere, before the oath, before royal courts, intrigues, and betrayed expectations. He saw himself a boy, wielding a wooden sword alongside Thomas, both pretending to be Musketeers. Men he once looked up to, although his rank and status placed him far above them. Men who now have names. Comrades. Friends. Brothers.

 

“Your Grace, why me? Surely, there are other candidates…”

 

“I can think of no one better Athos, and neither does the King. He trusts you. The men are loyal to you.”

 

The Minister had put his faith in him before and it had led to disappointment. Athos would like to point that out: how undisciplined he has been in the past in the face of temptation.

 

“What if…” he ventures but the Minister knows his doubts before Athos even speaks them.

 

“There is no Charles to tempt you, Olivier,” he whispers with a smile that brings back their early days at the Louvre. “And you know what it means to fail. It is an important lesson. I have complete trust in you. My recommendation stands.”

 

And yet. He considers the alternative. That bridge outside of Paris where she is waiting now. He has failed her many times before. As he has failed his godfather. As he may still fail his brothers.

 


	33. Athos

_Paris, May 11, 1625_  


He did not witness her execution. Instead, he rode all day to Paris.

 

For a man who had spent a good part of his youth in that city, he knew of just a few places besides the Louvre: a couple of inns and taverns and an armorer at the Rue Férou (1) who used to tend to the Hauteclere. These were the very places he wanted to avoid. Places where he might be recognized. Besides his horse he kept few things from his old life: the family sword, his mother’s letter box, and a small portrait of his father. How do you erase a life completely, he wondered? How do you become someone else?

 

Who would that be?

 

The first few days he moved in and out of inns and taverns, whose names he did not even bother to know. He slept in crowded rooms alongside travelers and old soldiers. He drunk cheap sour wine. When memories got the better of him, he sought other ways of forgetting, more potent than wine and harder to resist. Days passed. Maybe weeks. A month went by and then another. One evening, he found himself seated before a stone fireplace, in a large room, furnished with long wooden tables. It looked like an empty tavern but it was clean and neat. His eyes were dim, as if waking from a dream; he was disoriented, confused.

 

Someone handed him a cup. “Drink!” It was the voice of a man used to giving orders.

 

He obeyed without thinking. The liquid was warm and flavorful; some kind of broth, he reckoned.

 

“It will help you regain possession of your senses, Monsieur,” the stern voice sounded familiar, and as his vision grew clearer so did the man who spoke. He was older than he remembered, with sprinkles of gray in his hair, but still as imposing. Perhaps more.

 

Captain de Treville sat next to him, stirring the embers in the fire. “It will be a cold night,” he said quietly.

 

It was surprise Olivier felt first, followed by panic mingled with shame. “Captain,” he muttered acknowledging his companion for the first time. “Where is.. this place…here? Where did you find me?”

 

“In a way you found me,” said the Captain keeping his eyes focused on the flames. “You accused one of my men of cheating at cards, and then proceeded to attack him with nothing but a table knife. I happened to enter the tavern just in time to stop this insanity. Imagine when I discovered who had incited it….”

 

Olivier lowered his eyes. This is what he wanted to avoid. Familiar faces, recriminations, explanations. He wanted to keep it all simple… “I apologize,” he mumbled, to fill the awkward silence.

 

“It is to him you should apologize, not to me. At least that is what I would demand from a man of honor…” Olivier perceived a hint of irritation in his godfather’s voice. Man of honor sounded distant, foreign. I am not a man of honor, he thought but did not say it, as if to speak the thought would mark the end of this new path he had chosen.

 

“Can you even recall what happened, Olivier? I could not believe what I saw. I could not believe that the rambling wild creature in that tavern was the man I have known for so long…”

 

“You may have been mistaken about that man then,” Olivier scoffed.

 

Monsieur de Treville was not amused. “Pull yourself together, Monsieur!” he exclaimed, standing up, his tone austere and formal. “Your secrets are your own. But in this Garrison, no one behaves like an uncaged animal. This Garrison is ruled by discipline, Monsieur. Discipline, honor, and respect. Respect for each other and for yourself. For you cannot have one without the other. I demand that you apologize to my Musketeer. And that you behave honorably, for the time you remain within these walls, no matter how short it may be. Out there, Monsieur, you may pity and abuse yourself as much as you like. It saddens me to see it, but it is your choice. In here however, I do not permit it.” The Captain motioned to leave the room, pausing at the door. “My Musketeer’s name is Porthos du Vallon. He is one of the best soldiers of France. He has earned his position with hard work and sacrifice. He has given his blood in the field of battle and he is willing to give his life for his brothers in arms. You may not think him your equal, Monsieur, but he shall not be left with your condescension.”

 

Olivier remained in the room for some time. Honor, discipline, respect, were words he had heard all his life. Convenient fiction, Thomas had called them in his rage. They floated adrift and meaningless in Olivier’s confused mind. It was the tone in the Captain’s voice he could not shirk. It was his deep disappointment that resonated. Olivier passed his fingers through his hair. It felt matted and unkempt. He stumbled to his feet still unsteady and gazed at his reflection in the window. He could not recognize the man he saw. Whose were these clothes? A dirty, ripped shirt and old breeches that looked twice his size. He breathed deeply attempting to sober himself up and walked outside.

 

It was early afternoon. Despite the chill and the leaden skies, the courtyard was busy with men cleaning their pistols, polishing their swords, and practicing at target and swordplay.

 

“Where is the Musketeer Porthos?” he inquired, attempting to make himself sound coherent.

 

The man he was shown was tall and well-built: wide shoulders, narrow waist, muscled arms. His curly hair was pulled back with a string and his dark complexion was illuminated by a pair of bright chestnut eyes. He was leaning against a post at the gallery surrounding the courtyard, seemingly taking a moment’s rest from training and observing two Musketeers fencing. It was a close fight. Thrust for thrust.

 

“Ah, Bouvier,” Porthos laughed, “We seem to be winning this bet by the minute! Only three moves left!”

 

“It’s not over yet, Porthos!” exclaimed the Musketeer. “Aramis here is better with the musket than with the sword. I have a few moves left…”

 

The response was swift and unexpected, as the Musketeer called Aramis, swerved like a dancer and passing his rapier from his left to his right hand, touched his opponent on the opposite shoulder.

 

“ _Touché_!” exclaimed Porthos. “And 40 livres plus the drinks tonight!”

 

The men standing around observing, applauded with excitement. It was a magnificent move. “Bouvier,” cried one of them, “you should know better than underestimate the Abbé’s skills with the sword.”

 

The Musketeer named Aramis, bowed deeply, as if he were performing a dance at court. He was not as tall as Porthos, but he was as well built. Slender, agile, and light on his feet like a cat. He was quite an oddity, this man, Olivier thought. He was called an Abbé, and looked too polished, from his immaculate complexion, to his silk black hair, to his perfectly groomed beard, to his shirt that was not even wrinkled after a fight so intense. He did not look like a man whose daily life was devoted to training and combat. He certainly looked too worldly for a man of the church. Somehow, he made Olivier suddenly aware of the shabbiness of his own clothes. He had never cared about such things before.

 

Olivier was unwilling to apologize. Perhaps it was the fact that he was slowly getting sober. Perhaps it was the weight of Monsieur de Treville’s disillusionment. Perhaps it was his own perversity or the dregs of nobility he still carried with him.

 

“Monsieur du Vallon, I believe I attacked you earlier today…” he began.

 

“With a blunt table knife,” the Musketeer chuckled. “That was daring…”

 

Olivier realized, he was being treated with the kind of restrained disdain such men retain for all the drunken fools they encounter at taverns. He used to do the same.

 

“Did I injure you?” Olivier asked, with sneer in his voice. He was not about to retreat no matter what they thought of him, de Treville’s fine men of discipline. Besides, he could see a fresh red scar above Monsieur du Vallon’s brilliant eye.

 

“ _Sacrebleu_ , Monsieur!” exclaimed the Musketeer, his eyes glowing at the anticipated challenge. “You must be a man who places little value on his life….”

 

“Besides,” interjected Aramis, with his calm, deliberate voice, “your unfounded claims may have injured my friend’s reputation…”

 

“He cheated,” Olivier insisted although he remembered nothing at all.

 

“It would be preferable if you retracted that accusation, Monsieur,” said Aramis, his hand touching the hilt of his sword. “I am now seriously concerned about your safety.”

 

“Perhaps your friend can speak for himself. Or perhaps we could resolve this with real steel this time.” Olivier felt as if his head was about to burst, which made him even more irascible.

 

“My friend here, does not attack hapless drunks.” Aramis’ voice was quiet but a small vein throbbing now in his otherwise immaculate temple proved otherwise.

 

“Well this hapless drunk proposes to take your friend out in four moves.” Give me a sword, Olivier thought. Give me a sword and I will show you both how it is done.

 

“Four moves? You are more insane than you look, Monsieur!” Porthos du Vallon walked up to Olivier, his sword already drawn.

 

Olivier looked at the Musketeer as if he were sizing him up. “Perhaps three,” he scoffed.

 

The commotion attracted most men in the courtyard, who now gathered around, placing bets. “30 livres on Porthos!” cried one Musketeer and others followed. Aramis laughed. “The 40 livres we just won from Bouvier!” he exclaimed. From somewhere on the balcony above the courtyard Captain de Treville observed in silence.

 

Olivier could have done it in three moves but he chose not to. Perhaps it was the knowledge that Monsieur de Treville was looking. Or perhaps a sudden urge to prove himself to all these men betting against him without insulting them.

 

“You are a wealthy man now, Monsieur,” said Aramis handing Olivier all the money he had won.

 

“It seems to me,” said Olivier, “that the three of us earned this money together. For we three provided ample amusement for the rest of the regiment. How about we split it in three?”

 

“You are a strange fellow,” said Monsieur du Vallon patting him on the back. “What is your name?”

 

“Athos” said Olivier, and at once he felt unburdened. He suddenly knew the man he would be.

 

“Well, Athos, call me Porthos,” said the tall Musketeer. “The fine handsome fellow over here is Aramis. Best shooter in France. And yes, he always looks that polished and the ladies adore him.”

 

“No one can be perfect, I fear,” sighed Aramis, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. How about some hard-earned free good wine, Messieurs, to celebrate this new alliance?”

 

“By the way, Porthos,” whispered Athos as they walked side by side. “I could have taken you in three moves.”

 

“By the way, Athos” Porthos retorted, “I cheated.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) A slight nod to Dumas. In “The Three Musketeers,” Athos’ apartments are located at the Rue Férou.


	34. Grace

_Paris June 20, 1631_

 

He sits at his desk, the letter unsealed before him. Her letter. He has read it so many times he can recite its content. He picks the quill and writes his answer.

 

Below, his men are preparing for war.

 

For just a day, they all dared to imagine a life in times of peace. It was a life apart. Aramis on his journey to discover the man he can be away from all those he loves. It was a life of change. D’ Artagnan a man with a new household and Captain de Treville a Minister…

 

For just a day they stopped to consider all that was lost. Athos did not expect to grieve for Charles but found it impossible; his cousin, the handsome arrogant boy he had met in Paris decades ago, the nonchalant boy who was never serious about anything. The boy whose friendship marked Athos’ youth… Charles did not deserve the man he became. He did not deserve all that pain. He did not deserve a death so ignominious.

 

That night Athos lingered outside her house for a while and then, finally, knocked at her door. “I did not expect you to come,” she said letting him in herself. All the servants had been sent away. “I am leaving tomorrow,” she added, reminding him of the choice he had yet to make.

 

She brought wine and they sat together in silence. “Your friend Aramis does not mince his words,” she smiled, “I thought him superficial and arrogant, until recently.”

 

Athos recognized the description. “He sees right through you, doesn’t he? I assure you he is always right…”

 

“He said I take killing lightly,” she whispered. “It was not always that way. After a while you do what you have to do; enemies of France and all…”

 

“I understand,” he interjected and she looked at him astonished. “We all have done what we had to do, and much more besides…” There was no more left to say on the matter; at least he did not think so.

 

“Will you come with me?” she dared him.

 

“To London?” he retorted. “The weather is terrible…and the food…” He feigned disgust and they both laughed.

 

It is an old joke. Poor Henry de Winter always topped his long list of grievances against his homeland with this. Athos could always do an excellent Henry de Winter…

 

“No, not to London,” she said, standing up.

 

He stood up too, following her to her bedchamber.

 


	35. Debt

 

> _Paris, June 20, 1631  
>    
>  _
> 
> _He stands under my window, sheltered by the starless night. He has been there for hours. I understand his hesitation, as I understand his dilemma. I had decided not to help him resolve it but now I think it is unfair. I owe it to myself. I owe it to both of us. I know what I must tell him, so I put it on paper:_

_“To Athos, Captain of the King’s Musketeers…”_

> _I know his shadow well as I know his desire, but not much else. His desire I mistook for love first, and then I simply pretended it sufficed to keep us together. Later, it became the string I pulled when it was necessary._
> 
> _I was taught how to do this from a young age. Mother used to say that you can see a man’s weakness in his eyes no matter how bold his words. “The bolder the words the more scared the man, the easier your job,” she used to say. I was her best pupil. “Sweet beloved daughter,” she called me and I was proud, for it made all the other girls envy me. I wanted nothing to do with those groveling, scared, creatures, whose only aspiration was to have their maidenhead sold to the highest bidder. I was never auctioned off like cattle._
> 
> _“You were noticed, my sweet girl!” It was soon after the night when I had met him, fainting, at the bottom of the stairs; the night poor Suzette had been shoved out of the auction for the second time. Mother proudly walked into the parlor holding a letter and a small jewel box. “You have a patron, my love!” She took both my hands and kissed them. “He offers to keep you like a lady. He offers to protect our house. He offers you a gift to seal his promise.” She opened the box. It was a gold pendant in the shape of a heart framed in emeralds. I was too blinded at the time by the trinket, to ask about the price he offered for my keeping or his terms. I agreed without a second thought._
> 
> _I was taken to a house at St. Germain. It was not large but it was fashionable and lavished with beautiful furniture. I had a coach and servants. I was too young to live alone at such a respectable part of the city so I was given a chaperone of sorts. I called her Aunt and she introduced herself as Madame Perrette de Nemours. She was a religious woman who despised me and what I was. Yet, neither her religion nor her morals got in the way of playing her part for the money she got. I had tutors and even a shooting and a fencing master. I enjoyed both activities, unlikely though they seemed if I were to pass for a lady of repute. Everyone addressed me as Mademoiselle Anne de Breuil. I was presented as the only daughter of the Baron de Breuil who died heroically fighting against Protestants during the wars. My real father would have laughed at the irony. I thought the name had a ring to it. I still prefer my real name._
> 
> _I never saw my patron although, in a way, he saw me regularly. On the second Friday of every month I was visited by a Capuchin friar, who presented himself as Pére Hubert. He would read the reports from all my tutors and examine my progress. He demanded a confession too, which was amusing, given the circumstances. He wrote down everything meticulously and placed it in a folder made of worn brown leather. He spoke little; just what was necessary. He barely acknowledged me, and when he did it was impossible to penetrate his gaze. At first, I thought I might shock him with some story about my desire to seduce my dancing tutor or a salacious book I had read. He was completely unaffected so I gave up after a few fruitless attempts. I have never met a man more expressionless or impenetrable._
> 
> _I was grateful of course, but suspicious. Nothing is offered for free and I was offered more than I could ever have imagined. During one of the Friday audiences I removed a page from that precious leather folder Pére Hubert carried around. It was an unfinished letter about me, addressed to a certain Pére Joseph, whom he styled “Your Eminence.”(1) I had never heard of that name before, let alone a priest styled in this manner. It made no sense that I would be of any interest to a group of Capuchins. The letter did not enlighten me at all. It was a dry report, listing everything I lacked. “Willful and unpredictable” was marked at the top of the list as my major failing._
> 
> _Around the time of my seventeenth birthday Paris was seized by news of the assassination of Concini, the most powerful Minister and the Queen Mother’s favorite. Dramatic though the news was, I did not see why it should disrupt life in our strange household, but it did. My tutors stopped coming. Pére Hubert disappeared. Aunt Perrette wept refusing to speak at first, and then one day disappeared also along with the coachman and the servants. I thought I might sell some of the furniture, but I had no idea how to go about it. Besides, how long would I survive in this manner? What was the point of keeping up this charade of respectability? I decided it was time to leave it all behind and return home. I kept nothing from that strange life except the heart shaped pendant. I liked the way it felt around my neck and the deep green of the emerald stones._
> 
> _Mother did not seem a bit surprised to see me back. She did not look at all elated. I was too old to have my maidenhead intact, let alone have it sold off during one of her auctions. “You can put some of your new skills to work for our house now,” she said marking my new name on the leger where she listed her girls. Passing as the daughter of an ennobled veteran with attitude and manners to match, I was introduced to fat old aristocrats from court who fawned over de Luynes, the King’s favorite, now that the Queen Mother was banished from court alongside her allies, who were called conspirators. I wondered then for the first time, which one of those conspirators was my patron, but I was not a fool to ask any questions. Just to be associated with any of them could mean I might be turned out in the streets, or worse, lose my head. Not long after that, George de Winter crossed our threshold._
> 
> _I never thought much of the peculiar interlude in my youth, although I carried it with me in a way. It gave me my name and later, I thought it fitting to use the old heart pendant to hide the mark left on my skin by the man who betrayed me most of all. The pendant where once I had kept a lock of his hair. I returned to Paris from La Fére with not much else._
> 
> _I did not go back to Mother’s house. I was too old for that life. I found Saracen instead. By then he had made a name for himself; master of all the gangs in and around the Court of Miracles, including the notorious Fantômes led by Acheron, who was thought to be an evil spirit. I had skills Saracen could use and rage that served me well. “Do you worse,” I told myself, “and even that will not be enough.” I thought my every action a declaration of war against respectability, honor, duty, and love. Everything Olivier stood for I was determined to destroy. I imagined him witnessing it all burning down._
> 
> _Saracen conducted his business from Le Poulet Noir, a tavern he owned at the Rue Saint Sauver. He ruled the streets from there, all the way to the Louvre and to every court in Europe, now trying to outwit each other playing war. War is a profitable business, Saracen used to say and he was right. I never asked whom we served or cared about who paid my fees. I just got the job done._
> 
>  
> 
> _One night, I was summoned to his card table. He was playing with three men and losing. Saracen never lost a single game for his deck was marked, so this was obviously business. One man was German, the other an Irishman. The Irishman I knew from older engagements. His name was Gallagher; one of Hugh O’ Neil’s men left adrift after his death to work as mercenaries for any Catholic king who would pay them good money (2). The German I had never seen before but I had heard of him. Graf von Mansfeld (3) he styled himself, although he was just the bastard son of a count. A Catholic too who allied himself and his mercenaries with Protestants. The third man was a complete mystery. He was hooded and played in silence. But he was French. And nobility. For that I had no doubt. “Monsieur, here, asks whom you’d pick as a winner, Madame” said Saracen and the Frenchman nodded. “I’d pick the man who remains loyal to his original hand,” I replied standing behind Gallagher._
> 
> _It was a strange card table indeed. Catholic mercenaries against Protestant with a Frenchman in the middle and Saracen dealing the cards. I thought little of it however, until two days later, when I was stopped in the street by two Red Guards. “Please follow us, Madame,” they demanded, and I admit I was alarmed. “I do not see why,” I protested, in my mind retracing my steps from earlier that morning. I suspected Saracen had denounced me for some thing or other. I was taken to the Palais Cardinal, the new residence of Richelieu. It was strange. Most criminals end up at the Châtelet, not at an audience with the King’s First Minister._
> 
> _The office was austere and cold. Dark wooden bookshelves filled with leather bound volumes covered the walls and at the top of the room there was a large desk covered with papers. It was an unusual office for a clergyman; no crosses, no religious icons of any kind, except a large portrait of the Cardinal himself right above the table where he sat reading. How peculiar, I thought, to rule a whole country, a world even, from underneath your own image. The man looked up and I was startled. He did not look like his portrait, which made him appear older; he looked like the man who had won at Saracen’s card table._
> 
> _“I expect you are not surprised, Madame,” he said. I did not contradict him._
> 
> _“I should thank you for your wise advice the other night. I did not take it and it was unfortunate, for you were absolutely right. Von Mansfeld took French money and then allied himself with the English.” He stood up and walked towards me, his hands behind his back, his keen eyes staring at me with curiosity as if he were observing some wild animal he caught at a hunt before shooting it dead. “Madame Anne de Breuil… You come highly recommended…”_
> 
> _“By whom, your Eminence?”_
> 
> _“By yourself, Madame. I trust no one except my own eyes. It is time you worked for me.”_
> 
> _“Why should I?” I ventured with impudence. I thought, if he needs someone like me, he’d better pay me well. The way I saw it, he already owed me for the advice he got two nights before._
> 
> _“Because you owe me, Madame,” he said with a cryptic smile. “You are in debt to me and it is time you start paying me back.”_
> 
> _I admit, I was perturbed. I clutched the dagger hidden in my pocket and then I realized the stupidity of the motion. Was I going to slit the Cardinal’s throat in his own palace? “Your Eminence, I fear I do not understand you.”_
> 
> _“Oh, come my dear, you are much smarter than that…” he scoffed turning his back and walking back to his desk. “Circumstances made it impossible to claim my investment in you long ago. At the time it made sense to have a bright, well trained, promising young woman in my employment at places where many of my enemies thought they could be safe and intimate. My godson recommended you and I trust his judgement. You have availed yourself of the education I provided, Madame. You carry the name I gave you. And you wear your debt to me around your neck even now…”_
> 
> _I became his agent that day. Now I consider that debt paid in full. As I paid Rochefort for a debt I did not owe him, and Catherine with a truth she does not want to hear. The debt with Olivier however remains unpaid. We owe each other still…_
> 
> _I pick up the quill and sign my letter, as he knocks at my door._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Pére Joseph, known as “éminence grise”: François Leclerc du Tremblay (4 November 1577 – 17 December 1638) was a French Capuchin friar, confidant and agent of Cardinal Richelieu.  
> (2) Gallagher/ Hugh O’ Neil: Gallagher is a fictional character invented for the BBC series (Season 1). Hugh O’ Neil (Aodh Mór Ó Néill; literally Hugh The Great O'Neill; c. 1550 – 20 July 1616), Earl of Tyrone. He led the resistance during the Nine Year’s War, the strongest threat against English authority in Ireland.  
> (3) Graf von Mansfeld: Ernst Graf von Mansfeld (c. 1580-Nov. 29, 1626). Illegitimate son of Count Peter Ernst von Mansfeld, military commander during the early part of the Thirty Years War. Although raised Catholic his army of mercenaries fought on the side of Protestants. In 1625 he paid three visits to London and one to Paris. It is probable that he was there to bargain for a commission. It is also probable that he met with Richelieu in secret. However, he ended up sailing with his army from Dover to the Netherlands.


	36. Part X: Reckoning

**Part X: Reckoning** _  
_

_…stand to face me beloved  
_ _and open out the grace of your eyes…_

_(SAPPHO, Fragment 138, Transl. Anne Carson)_

> _“June, 20 1631  
> _ _To Athos, Captain of the King’s Musketeers:_
> 
> _Perhaps you think that to address you thus is premature, but it is who you really are. It is the man you have been for a long time now. Do not deceive yourself. There is no choice for you to make, for there has been no dilemma._
> 
> _I see you standing outside my window, and I wonder why you are here at all. In my mind it is all clear. Once you confused desire for love as much as I did. Then all kinds of things got in the way that were more important: your fear for your family honor and the family name. Thomas’ ferocious anger and Catherine’s hidden bruises. That is when our paths diverged. You faced your duty. I faced your brother’s dagger and your executioner._
> 
> _The past is never dead you said. I say that for me there was no other option. I say that the man you have become now should stop looking behind expecting to grasp some profound meaning about where life failed him or where he has failed others. You no longer have this luxury. Stop worrying that you might fail in your new life. Just take this next step._
> 
> _Seeing you standing here undecided however, I wonder if I misjudge you. I do not wish to be unkind or cruel. Perhaps you have changed. Do I want to know you, I wonder?_
> 
> _Anne”_

************************************************************************

 

> _“June 21, 1631  
>  Beloved friend,_
> 
> _Perhaps you too may think that to address you thus is premature but I cannot think of another way. Your letter was tentative, as it should. I am not writing to elicit a response or some token or promise. I write because I owe it to you and to myself to be the one who makes the first step this time. That is why I came to your door; that is why I shared your bed; that is why I now address you thus._
> 
> _You say that I must obliterate the past and claim this new life ahead of me instead. You are a severe judge but you are neither unkind nor cruel. A year ago, I let you go convinced our paths would never cross. I threw away the pendant with the flower you had pressed for me. It was a reminder of a crime; my crime not yours. I gave away the few lands left to my name. I thought I was done with that life. Then our paths crossed again. Like you I do not believe in fate. The truth is that I wished it and that I made it happen. As did you._
> 
> _Of everything in our past that we claim to have shed, few memories remain more vivid to me than the overnight carriage ride when we first arrived to Paris. You had fallen asleep and I covered you with my cloak. I knew then, as I know now, that my soul had wrapped itself around you and that there it would always remain. You cannot remember this but I want you to know. At the time I thought it a weakness. I realized my error too late._
> 
> _I shall not meet you at the bridge outside of Paris. It would be premature, you are correct. Instead, I shall pursue the life ahead of me which, in truth, I have always desired. It is a life of purpose and meaning. It is a life of friendship and devotion. It is a full life._
> 
> _I want to reciprocate for the valuable advice you offered me last night. You say the past is dead. I say you should seek the past you left behind, before the King and the Cardinal, before La Fére, England, Paris, and Uzés. That past which waits for you to reclaim; the past attached to your real name and heritage. I am honored to share that secret with you now, for the first time, and I shall hold it dear as I hold the memory of our last night together._
> 
> _In loyalty and friendship,_
> 
> _Athos, Captain of the King’s Musketeers”_

_*******************************************************************************_

 

> _“September 17, 1631_
> 
> _Beloved friend,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you safe. News of the war have reached us even here. I imagine you are at the front, in charge of your men, as you have always wanted. It sounds unlike me to say this, I know, but I cannot help it. I worry that this cruel war may injure you; that it may leave you disillusioned; that it may cost you the friends who are now dearest to you. I worry because I am too far and cannot protect you or intervene as I once could._
> 
> _I waited for you on that bridge although I knew you would not come. Ironic is it not that I, the advocate of burning down all bridges, should suddenly feel inclined to linger thus? I left something behind. Perhaps you found it. Sentimental nonsense you might have thought. Still, I cannot forget all you wrote in your letter, nor the things you said during our last night about memories we must cherish. Perhaps we can create new ones. As for old memories: You are wrong. I remember that cold overnight ride in the carriage to Paris very well…_
> 
> _My journey here was a long one. Not so much the physical distance but stepping back into a life I had left behind so very long ago that I barely remembered places and people. I thought the past was full of misery but in this, I was wrong and you were right. Seated here, at the window of my father’s house gazing at the great blue expanse of the open sea I realize it is a past filled with beauty. Here, among my father’s books and my mother’s paintings I see a future full of promise opening before me._
> 
> _I hope you are safe and content. I hope that you will remember me with kindness as I remember you._
> 
> _In loyalty and friendship,_
> 
> _A.F.M._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Part I is based on Season 2, ep. 1 “Keep your friends close”  
> Part III is based on Season 2, ep. 4, "Emilie"  
> Part IV is based on Season 2, ep. 5, "Return"  
> Part V is based on Season 2, ep. 6 “Through the Glass Darkly”  
> Part VI is based on Season 2, ep. 7, “Marriage of Inconvenience”  
> Part VIII is based on Season 2, ep. 9 “The Accused"  
> Part IX is based on Season 2, ep. 10 “Trial and Punishment”


End file.
